Come in from the Cold: The Unit
by OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: “Let me make myself clear,” Ryan said. “I was told point blank that we would attend this farce or we would be cleaning the latrines. I'm still considering latrine duty." This piece of fiction is as complete as it's going to get.
1. Chapter 1

Come in from the Cold

By OughtaKnowBetter

Obligatory Disclaimer: all theirs, nothing mine, even though they're not using them during the writer's strike. "A bad actor can ruin good writing, but a good actor can't save bad writing." Let the industry remember this!

A/N: this work is two stories in one, and will appear under the same title under two fandoms: Numb3rs, and The Unit. Each story is written from a different POV, and will merge later on. No one has to read the story from the other fandom--each story is designed to be complete--but those who enjoy both fandoms will hopefully like the additional tidbits that are offered. Let's see if this works...

A/N #2: set in season two, where the relationships were a bit more calm...

A/N #3: Enough, already! Seriously, come on over to the forum known as "Calling All Authors". It's a safe haven from Internet bullies and flamers, where writers can work to improve their skills. I know it's helped me!

* * *

Hector Williams stared at Colonel Ryan. He tried to remain respectful of his commander, but it was tough. "You're kidding, right? Sir?" 

Ryan's return smile was also forced. "I wish I were, Williams. I wish I were. Even more so because I myself will be joining you."

It was one of the more unusual briefings that Sergeant Major Jonas Blane had attended. It wasn't the personnel: Mack Gerhardt was his second, with the rest of his merry little band, Williams, Bob Brown, and Charlie Grey, all sitting in varying levels of attention in the small classroom that doubled as a briefing room. It wasn't his commander, Colonel Thomas P. Ryan, a hard as nails leader with a reputation worth following.

It was, as always, the mission.

"Let me make myself clear," Ryan said, standing in front of his men, his arms folded across his chest in a position of disgust. "I tried like hell to get us out of this and was told point blank that we would attend this farce or we would be cleaning the latrines for the next month. I seriously considered latrine duty."

The looks on everyone's faces said that more than one soldier was still considering latrine duty as the better option.

"But the Powers That Be have determined that those of us on this side of the fence have not 'bonded' sufficiently with the rest of the base, with the result that our tattered and frayed cover story has been further tattered and frayed, never mind that it was a dumb ass cover to begin with. Therefore we have been ordered to take ourselves and our wives and/or significant others, those of us who have such people at our disposal, to this week long retreat at an over-priced country club so that we can demonstrate to the rest of this man's army that the 303rd Logistical is a unit like everyone else." Ryan pushed the crooked smile forth yet again.

Jonas Blane came to attention and tossed off a crisp salute. "Sir, on behalf on my men and myself, I wish to volunteer for any mission leaving within the next twenty four hours, _sir_!"

"Yeah!" "Hear, hear!" "Way to go, Jonas!"

Ryan shook his head. "Nice try. Bravo Squad already went for that one, and they are currently winging their way to yet another vacation spot on this troubled world of ours. They beat you out."

Gerhardt went for upset and disappointed. "Aw, colonel—you like them better than us."

"Nah. They just smell worse and they have rotten table manners. And since I have to join you bozos on this god-forsaken mission, I'm lookin' out for myself." He straightened himself up. "You will still be able to draw on Stores for supplies. As for weapons, you can choose between the Arthur Ashe tennis racket and the one designed by Andre Agassi. I have already ordered you men a crate of golf balls. Think of them as a box of defective grenades. The golf clubs you get to supply for yourselves. The resort does boast several unimpressive sets for those of you already overdrawn on your pay."

"We're going un-armed?" Those were Grey's words, but the entire team looked faintly ill at the thought.

"Skeet shooting only, sergeant, and the pea-shooters that this resort type place uses are already available at said resort with the sights so mis-aligned you'll think you can't hit the broad side of a barn. Nobody brings anything more, and if I catch any man with any of his own Unit issue, he'll go back for _another_ retreat and have to explain to the Unit shrink why he disobeyed orders. Any other question? No. Dismissed." Ryan escaped out through the door before anyone could object to any more idiocy.

The five of them looked at each other.

"Tiffy's always saying that I don't spend enough time with her." Mack Gerhardt tried to make the best of it. His smile didn't quite come off.

"I've done worse things for the army," was Jonas' contribution.

They looked at Bob Brown. He shrugged. "Kim'll go anywhere," he said. "She'll make the best of it. The hard part will be getting her parents to take care of Serena and the baby."

Jonas looked doubtful. "That's the hard part? Doesn't sound particularly difficult to me."

"It's not. In fact, this whole thing sounds too good to be true."

"There speaks a man who hasn't been married long." Grey figured out what was going on. He turned to Williams. "You think they have many unattached ladies in that resort?"

"A few," was Williams' hope, rather than thought. "Mostly army types. The colonel did say that we needed to fraternize with the other unit."

"Then I suppose I'll simply have to fraternize with the ladies of whatever unit is there." Grey sighed theatrically. "What I do for my country."

* * *

Jonas looked at the two rented vehicles, both roomy sedans with all the maneuvering ability of a cow mired in quicksand, and sighed. "Never let it be said that I ordered a man under my command into a dangerous situation that I myself would not dare to go. I will be driving the vehicle containing both my commanding officer, his wife—and mine." 

"Here, here!" "Way to go, Top!" "Brave man."

"We are not amused, Jonas," was Molly's tart reply, but it was tempered by the half-smile on her face. She knew exactly what her husband was about and exactly how to play off of him. "This is a vacation, ordered and paid for by the Army. We are going to enjoy it whether you want to or not." She lifted the smaller of her two bags, Jonas taking it from her and stowing it into the trunk of the sedan. The larger one followed, as did his own smaller duffle and the pair of bags that Mrs. Ryan had brought. The colonel, like Jonas, preferred to travel light. Molly eyed Blane's duffel suspiciously. "You did bring a suit, Jonas? Your dress blues?"

"Yes, ma'am. It's packed in _your_ case, as per your orders, so as to prevent premature wrinkling." Jonas was playing it up big, having a difficult time suppressing the smile that Molly knew was there.

"I, for one, am looking forward to this," Charlotte Ryan announced. "Too often when we attend social functions, it's little more than a disguised exercise in political maneuvering. For once, I will be pleased to be somewhere that I don't have to automatically categorize the political threat level and spontaneously generate a verbal plan of action coordinated with several people who may or may not be in my own chain of command." She smiled at her husband of only a few months. "Just as you have your battlefield, so I have mine."

"And it is indeed filled with mines set to explode," Ryan agreed. "Are we ready to move out? The Tactical people have already loaded up and taken off. Where's Williams and Grey?" He looked around. "They ain't getting out of this one. Not if the rest of us have to go."

"Right here, colonel!" Williams sang out, Grey bringing the Jeep to a screeching dusty halt beside the two black sedans. There were grins on both men's faces, a rush brought on by driving too fast in a vehicle with the top safely stowed in back. He jerked his thumb at Charlie Grey. "Got my date right here, sir."

Colonel Ryan was the suspicious type, although he preferred to tell people that he 'knew his men.' "No guns?"

"No guns, sir. You can check the back."

"I'll do that, soldier." Ryan ambled over to the rear of the vehicle, peering in. There were two bags per Unit member, one duffel and one slightly more conventional that, Ryan assumed, held clothing suitable for evening maneuvers, all tossed carelessly onto the floor of the Jeep. There was nothing else. Ryan eyed the pair suspiciously. He had expected at least one member of the squad to try and sneak some heavy firepower along and, of the five, he'd expected it to be Williams or Grey. "Nothin' under the seat, soldier?"

"No, sir. You can look."

Ryan chose not to go that far. If there was something contraband, it wouldn't be there, not with Williams telling him to go ahead with that wide-eyed innocent-as-a-baby stare of his. Gerhardt and Brown, already packed in and ready to go, were watching him grill the other two from their own comfortable sedan, their wives sitting in the back seat. Everyone was waiting on the colonel. He sighed. Either they hadn't brought anything, not one of 'em, or it was too well-hidden for him to find in a short minute's inspection.

Besides: did he really want to find it? Did he really want to go somewhere that he didn't have access to a weapon worth calling a weapon?

This was supposed to be some sort of a 'vacation'. One corner of Tom Ryan's mouth quirked upward. "Move out," was all he said.


	2. Cold 2 Unit

"This is nice," was Kim Brown's opinion, looking around as her husband tipped the bell boy dropping off their luggage. The room was done in determined beige, with the bed coverings, the curtains, and the rug all dyed to match. Only the gold-rimmed frame on the wall with an innocuous wooded scene tried to stand out, and that not successfully. It blended in with the beige wallpaper. "You sure the Army's paying for this?"

"Colonel Ryan's name is on the bill, not mine," Bob responded absently. He looked around, reminding himself that he didn't have to automatically assess for the best points of egress, the faster way out of the terrain, the… He shook himself. _Enjoy this_. It was a week of R & R, at the Army's request, with the woman that he loved and didn't spend enough time cherishing, what with one thing and another, especially now with a little one who thought that bounding in to see Mommy and Daddy in the early morning was just dandy and a smaller one that required two AM feedings.

Not overlarge, but still nice. The bed looked long enough to accommodate his tall frame with covers that would keep away the chill of the encroaching fall nights. Midnights got cold this close to the Canadian border, he thought, then remembered that along about those midnights he ought to be snuggling up to a certain warm body, not out on the slopes with a pair of field glasses, watching for whatever spy was taking the ski route across the border.

_Bad, Bob, bad!_ He wasn't here on a mission, not exactly. This was more in the fashion of unwinding, and if he couldn't stop thinking in terms of mission parameters _now_ then some R & R in this manner was exactly what he needed. To punish himself for bad thoughts, he pulled Kim to him. _Not bad for punishment. I'll have to get punished a little more often._

"Here, what's this?" Kim was objecting not at all. She wound her hands around the back of his neck, coming in close.

"This," Bob interrupted himself for a long kiss, "is a moment alone," another kiss, "with my wife." One more kiss.

"Mm." Kim slid further into his grasp. "I could keep this up," pause for air, and more, "all night." Ear nibble. "Don't suppose," fall back onto the bed, "we could," was that a few buttons? "skip cocktail hour?"

_Damn_ fine way to forget about work for a while.

* * *

Ryan stretched his collar irritably. Damn thing was always too tight. Charlotte kept telling him that he looked fine, to leave it alone, but Thomas P. Ryan was a fighting man, not a politician. Oh, sure, he'd chosen to add these particular battlefields to his sphere of influence, but that didn't mean he had to like the uniform.

Good choice, his wife. She had what he needed for these fights. She moved among the soldiers and their various wives like a shark seeking prey. She could see into them, and through them, and could devise plans like a general on the verge of a successful retirement. The Washington political scene was her playground, and knowing the things that each player was doing both publicly and privately was her stock in trade. A word in her ear, and Ryan could have a full dossier on just about anyone. This wasn't really a battlefield here, though; not here, not now. This was play, or so he had been instructed. Still, it was second nature for Charlotte to assess and evaluate all the personalities present. His wife could no more stop her automatic responses to the people around her than he could on a battlefield.

They were all here, the men of his own unit and the couple dozen or so enlisted folk from the four oh ninety six, the 'other side of the fence' as he thought of it. There was also about a baker's dozen couples here from a corporation, doing the same sort of 'retreat' thing that Ryan and his men were here for, doing the 'team-building' thing. They tended to keep to themselves, handing out a professional smile or two as they passed, but clearly seemed intimidated by the quantity of fighting men in the ballroom.

Not just men, but three or four fighting women as well. Ryan recognized them by sight, if not by name. One was towing a captain along—a husband and wife team, he thought—and another a civilian type who had that computer geek look to him. Probably did his fighting on the fields of Dungeons and Dragons, Ryan mused, or fussing over the mock ups that they used to train pilots on. He covered a smile. Didn't leave too many women for Williams or Grey to go after, not unless they wanted to get their hands slapped. Maybe some corporate types were here without escorts? Ryan wouldn't bet on it. Be interesting to see what his men could make out of this situation.

"Colonel Ryan."

Ryan turned smoothly, bourbon in hand, to face his counterpart from the four oh ninety six. "Colonel Peterson." It was lieutenant colonel, actually, but Ryan wasn't about to get into a pissing war over it. They were here to make nice. "A fine place you picked out for this little get together."

"Glad you like it." Peterson sipped at his own drink, something that looked mixed over ice. "My wife mentioned it to General Burgos, last time we were in Washington. Been here a couple of times before."

"Good choice," Ryan repeated, simply to have something to say. "Haven't had a chance to scope the place out yet. Golf course?"

"Nine holes, and transportation to the one a few miles away that's regulation," Peterson told him. "The tennis courts are nice, good surface to them. You play?"

"I've been known to pick up a racket," Ryan allowed. The Arthur Ashe was sitting in his room. He hadn't played a set in years; he was always too busy, and running an obstacle course seemed a better way to get in an exercise drill. "That an invitation, colonel?"

"It is, colonel. Tomorrow, at nine?"

"Nine, it is." Ryan spotted someone that he recognized. "Excuse me, colonel. I see someone that I want to say hello to."

Peterson followed his gaze, and instantly recognized the same person. "Good idea, colonel. Good luck," he added dryly. "I'll be along myself in a moment."

Ryan wove his way through the crowd, making it seem as though he was ambling aimlessly.

His path was anything but. He eased himself into the small group. "Dr. Ainsley. Pleasure to see you here."

Ainsley could look Ryan eye to eye, but there the resemblance stopped. Where Ryan had muscle, Ainsley was lean to the point to say that little to no physical exercise took place and neither did much in the way of food consumption. The muscles were there but underdeveloped.

Not so the brain. Ainsley was as smart as anyone Ryan knew, and if the psychologist didn't happen to think along the same lines as Ryan or his men, then that was too bad for somebody. Sometimes it was Ainsley, but more often it was someone else.

It was not a pleasure for either of them to see the other, and neither one was about to admit to it. "Colonel." Ainsley lifted his glass of white wine in a token greeting. "Glad you and your men could make it here."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world, doctor," Ryan lied. _General made it a direct order, that's why me and mine didn't head straight for Baghdad._ "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Very much." Ainsley was as good at lying as Ryan, but in this case he didn't need to. _I get my jollies watching you sweat, Ryan. Which of your men is going to screw up and let me get my hooks in?_ Ainsley took a puff on the fat cigar in his other hand."Have you taken the opportunity to look over the lay of the land?"

"Doing so as we speak," Ryan assured him. _That cigar of yours is fatter than you, Ainsley. You sure you don't get blown over by a stiff breeze?_ "I understand that the tennis courts are fine, and Mrs. Peterson has informed her husband that the meals are outstanding. The beds are a trifle soft for an old military dog like me"—_not an over-educated pansy like you_—"but I'm certain that my men and I will be able to handle the discomfort."

"I'm certain you will," Ainsley replied blandly, taking another puff. He scanned the room. "It appears your men are making themselves at home. Isn't that Sergeant Williams I see, talking with Private Owens?"

"I'm afraid I don't know Private Owens by sight," Ryan admitted. He could see Williams talking to a young female in a cocktail dress, the two of them laughing at something that Gerhardt had said. Bonding; good. Williams was doing his part. The girl couldn't hold a candle to Mrs. Gerhardt, Ryan thought, comparing the two standing next to each other: Tiffy, with her corn silk blonde hair, her laughing blue eyes. _Dangerous ground, there, Thomas_. He had ended that particular chapter in his life and had no desire to re-kindle it. No one was the wiser, with the exception of his wife. He'd confessed to Charlotte straight away, and she had assured him that Mrs. Gerhardt had understood. He knew better than to try to keep it a secret from his wife. Ryan could withstand a fair amount of torture, but Charlotte Ryan didn't need torture to wriggle out the truth. There had been moments between the two women, moments that Ryan deemed it better not to inquire over. Those moments didn't seem to be particularly rational, and Ryan, a mere man, chose not to leap into the pit of incomprehension.

"Excellent soldier, Owens," Ainsley told him. "Works in the clerical pool. And the blonde next to them?"

"Sergeant Gerhardt's wife," Ryan replied, careful to keep his tone even.

Ainsley picked up on it. "You know her?"

_Better than any interrogator that the Army ever turned out_. "I know all my men's significant others," Ryan reproved primly. _This ain't just any squadron you're messin' with, Ainsley._

"I imagine you do," Ainsley replied blandly. "Lovely woman. Sergeant Gerhardt is a lucky man."

_You don't know the half of it, doctor. And you ain't about to learn it from any of me or mine_.

Peterson chose that moment to make his own entrance, and Ryan relaxed. Let Peterson wriggle underneath Ainsley's hawk-eyed perusal for a while. They'd both enjoy it; Peterson because he considered it part of his responsibility to keep his people sweating and Ainsley because Peterson was an easier mark than Ryan.

Peterson knew it. Therefore, Peterson didn't wait for an invitation. He threw one of his men to the wolves as fast as he could. "Dr. Ainsley, pleasure to see you here." _Half-truth_.

"The pleasure is all mine, colonel." _Complete truth. I look forward to the opportunity to make fools of fighting men. I'm making up for all the bullying I received as a child, walking to school with my lunch money_.

Peterson made a small show of looking around. "I've been looking for Lieutenant Rowe. Have you seen him?" _That boy has been riding my ass about something, and I want you to take him down a peg or two._

Ainsley frowned for effect. "I'm not certain that I know Lt. Rowe by sight, colonel. I don't think that he's ever come in to see me."

_Probably too well adjusted_, Ryan thought to himself, feeling sorry for the lieutenant. _And too smart_.

"Not surprised," Peterson grunted, laying the groundwork for Ainsley to seek the man out. "The man has a genius for showing up when he's not wanted, and disappearing when he is."

"Quite a talent," Ryan commented blandly. "Know a couple of those types myself." _Present company included_. He lifted his glass wryly, suddenly weary of listening to all the sub-texts floating between the various parties. "Evening, gentlemen. There are a few more people that I need to say hello to." He excused himself from the grouping, feeling like he'd just escaped from a drug lord's jungle stronghold. He took another swig on his drink, remembering just in time to sip rather than gulp, knowing that Ainsley would be watching from behind Ryan's back.

Time to seek out some friendlies, catch his breath. He joined Sgt. Major Blane and Sgt. and Mrs. Brown.

"Glad to see you could make it, sergeant," Blane was saying to Brown, a twinkle in his eye. Brown had just scored a couple of drinks, a beer for himself and white wine for his wife. It was clear that the young couple had arrived only moments ago.

"Wouldn't have missed this for anything," Brown lied with a straight face, guileless green eyes staring out at his team leader.

Mrs. Brown wasn't quite as devious. Ryan had seen too many women to miss the full lips, the slight dilation of both pupils that said quite clearly that the young couple had debated whether or not to head on down for cocktails or enjoy the quiet privacy of their room. Only military courtesy had kept them from being MIA. Frankly, Ryan himself would have preferred that same option.

"This is really nice," Kim Brown said, trying to both look around the hall and keep her attention on her husband's commanding officer. There was simply too much to take in all at once, from the crowded mass of people to the heavy velvet drapes that curtained not only the windows but the high walls. The chandelier itself, high above them all, was deserving of at least sixty seconds of shock and awe. Ryan couldn't help but think about how much chaos would be caused should that chandelier come loose from its fixture. Perfect m.o. for a bunch of terrorists.

He sighed. He needed to stop thinking of the dangers lurking behind every door—or up on the ceiling. Like his men, he'd been working a little too hard for a few too many months. Maybe it _was_ time for a little R & R. It was time to take a step back, remind himself that not everyone was out to get him and his.

Not everyone, but Dr. Ainsley was. Of that, Ryan was certain. There was no other reason for the psychologist's presence.

Jonas Blane knew it, too. "I see we have some interesting acquaintances here," he offered.

"We do indeed, Sgt. Blane," Ryan agreed, carefully not looking back over his shoulder. "We do, indeed."

"And I suspect we'll need to be on our toes," Blane added. "I'll be certain to advise the rest of my team." He flashed white teeth. "I have been offered an invitation by Master Sergeant Baxter of the Four Oh Ninety Six for a friendly game of soccer tomorrow afternoon. Seeing as how the mission objective is to 'bond' with them, I took the liberty of accepting, sir. A couple of the TOC team have volunteered to make up our numbers."

Ryan lowered his voice. "You do realize, sergeant, that we will need to take a dive on this one?"

Brown nodded his head with complete agreement, couldn't help but toss a glance at Dr. Ainsley. "Yes, sir, I believe we will. After all, we have been spending far too much time working out army logistics to be able to get out to practice ball handling maneuvers."

"I believe that the TOC cadre will more than make up for our lack of skill, sir," Blane added blandly.

"Glad to hear it, men." Ryan lifted his glass in acknowledgement of the plan, wishing that he dared refill it. But he needed a clear head tonight, and for the nights to come. "To the honor of the Unit."

"The Unit," the others echoed.

* * *

"Oh, Carlitos," Gerhardt sighed, sliding his own arm around his wife. His left hand held his third beer of the night. Other couples mingled around them. "What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into this time?"

Tiffy Gerhardt nestled her head into his shoulder. She was just the right height to make that maneuver feasible. She looked over at the scene playing out several feet away from them, a scene involving Sgt. Grey and a military female type that Tiffy didn't recognize. "I think it's sweet. Charlie needs someone to look after him."

Gerhardt snorted. "'Bout as much as I do, darlin'," he replied without thinking. "Ow," was the next word out of his mouth, in response to the solid punch that Tiffy put into his bicep. It didn't hurt, but if he didn't pretend that it did, there would be a bigger world of hurt later tonight, upstairs in their room. "Didn't mean it that way, sweetheart. You know that."

"Do I?" Tiffy wasn't about to let him off the hook. "You think you don't need me?"

"Not a chance." Mack knew when it was time to grovel. The army had taught him how to grovel to his commanding officers, and he was more than happy to transfer those lessons learned to other aspects of his life. "I need you more than life itself, baby. I was wrong in what I said. Charlie completely needs a woman in his life. Just not that one."

"Hmph." Not completely mollified, and not taken in, but willing to let it pass for the moment. There would be a better time to remind her husband of his _faux pas_, and Tiffy was all for storing up those moments and waiting.

Mack hurriedly moved on. "What I mean, baby, is: look at that guy over there."

"PFC Lingenhammer?"

"No, not him. Next to him. The big guy, with the corporal's stripes."

"Benson."

"Whatever his name is. Him."

"Okay, I'll bite. What about him?" Tiffy's curiosity was piqued.

"Didn't you see that way that Benson was looking at that chick? And the way she was looking back at him?"

Tiffy took a second look. "Oh. Oh, yeah. Mack, you're right. You think you ought to warn Charlie?"

But a slow grin slowly spread itself across Mack's craggy face. "Naw. This should be fun to watch."

* * *

"I've got to get over to your side of the compound more often," Charlie told the girl in front of him. "Ramona. Nice name, to go with a nice lady." Sweet catch, and he was glad that he'd spotted her before Hector. His team mate was fast and smooth, and could sucker in a chick like reeling in trout from a barrel when he wanted to.

Not this lady. Charlie had gotten there first. Ramona was a tasty package rolled up in civvies; the ladies had been given official permission to avoid military get up for the duration of the retreat, and Charlie was glad of it. Uniforms could look good, but there were certain women who would look even better out of them, and one of those certain women was here with him, looking him eye to eye. That eye contact didn't stop him from letting his gaze wander down to the slowly curving smile on full lips. He had to stop himself from letting that gaze wander a bit further down to admire a few more curves; _not yet, boy. Let this play out slow, or as slow as a week-long retreat would let it._

"I haven't seen you around, either," Ramona admitted, easing herself into Charlie's personal space. Liquid brown eyes smoldered. "Been on base long?"

"Long enough," Charlie told her, caution so ingrained that even now he couldn't give a straight answer. "You?"

She rolled those big brown eyes. "Back from a tour in Iraq," she said. "Fun place. The night life keeps you hopping. Literally."

"Bully for night life," he replied, reminded of a certain little café in Baghdad. The place went boom shortly after he left, and he wondered idly if it had been rebuilt. Probably; the Iraqi's weren't the type to let a good location go to waste. Wasn't about to tell that to this girl. Not the time or the place, and probably never would be.

Ramona leaned forward, fully aware of how low cut her blouse was. "How about you and I explore some of the 'night life' around here?" She sipped at her drink.

Charlie fought down the urge to rip her clothes off right here, in front of everyone. This girl wanted it as badly as he did—probably more—and was telling him so in signals that no one could miss if they were blind as a bat and comatose besides.

Ramona sipped again, letting her tongue swirl against the rim of the salt-covered tequila glass. She was being so obvious—

Too obvious. Charlie had almost missed the quick little dart of Ramona's eyes over his shoulder, thinking that the smoldering in her eyes were only for him. _Damn_. He was being used. He battled down the sigh; he should have guessed. No woman allowed themselves to be seduced this quickly unless they had another agenda. Clearly it was someone standing behind him, watching their every move and probably getting more and more steamed, which was just what Ramona had intended.

All right; how to remedy the situation? This still could work out to his advantage. Charlie wasn't looking for a long term relationship. That worked for Top, and Mack, and newbie Brown, but Charlie was well aware of the strain that his profession could put on a marriage or even a semi-permanent room mate. A week long fling with no regrets at the end could be just what the doctor ordered, and he wasn't talking old Ainsley in the corner over there, watching everything going on with those eagle eyes of his. Charlie had been in enough tight spots that he was reasonably certain that whatever he couldn't talk his way out of, he could fight his way out of.

Uh, maybe not. He was supposed to be a milquetoast logistics clerk, concerned over the quality/cost ratio of printer ink. He could hear Col. Ryan in his head, saying, 'leave it go, sergeant. She's not worth the aggravation.'

Maybe, maybe not. This chick looked hot; hot enough to boil his blood. Hot enough to boil the blood of whoever she was trying to tease. _Okay, let's let this play out just a short while longer, see what's going on here…_

"Works for me," Charlie said easily, sliding his arm around her waist, hoping that he was mistaken. Mistakes could happen. They had happened in the past, and likely would in the future. "You got anyone waiting for you?"

"Not a soul," Ramona told him earnestly, pupils dilating.

Charlie let his grin stay warm. Damn. He'd read it right. Chick was lying through her teeth.

Okay, salvage time. This place was significantly short of unattached women, which meant that the nights were going to be a trace on the long side, even more so since trying to go AWOL into town was likely to get him into more trouble than even he wanted. So maybe he could spin this out over the entire retreat? He could try. Heck, worst case scenario: cheap entertainment, and clearly a lady this hot, the bozo that was letting her tease him like this had to be an idiot in need of a lesson. If Charlie himself couldn't have her, at least he could help her do the tantalizing.

Decision made: Charlie tightened his arm around Ramona's waist. "You want another tequila, or are you good?"

"Oh, I'm very good," Ramona replied.

_Okay, doll, you made your point. You can do the double entendre thing very well. Who's the joe that you're trying to bust on?_ Charlie eased them around so that he could see out of the corner of his eye Ramona's target.

_Uh oh. All I see is large, economy size linebacker types. Maybe I was a little hasty in deciding to play this out. Sure, I can take him—I hope—but it could get ugly in ways that nobody wants it to. And with Ainsley looking on…_

Sigh. _What I do for my country_.

* * *

"Pretty place," Molly said. She and Jonas had taken themselves out onto the veranda, wanting a breath of fresh air; air that hadn't been tainted by the need for caution and the need to hide the true purpose of Jonas' unit. For all the Four Oh Ninety Six knew, Jonas was in charge of ordering adequate quantities of toothpaste for use by American troops stationed in Afghanistan and making certain that the manufacturers of same were more than adequately compensated for their efforts. "Nice night."

"It is, indeed," Jonas agreed. The air was a hint on the cool side compared to where in the world he had last been, but it was agreeable. That touch of frost sharpened a man's wits, sharpened his senses instead of dulling them with too much heat. He inhaled, enjoyed the faint scent of pine, looking out over the rolling field outside and the trees beyond. That field, he remembered though he couldn't distinguish it in the darkness, was set up to serve as a baseball diamond, a football field, and a soccer field all in one. The tennis courts were off to the eastern edge of the resort. He almost suggested going over the lay of the land before catching himself. _Don't have to scope this one out, Jonas. This is R & R. Mission objective: bond with the other squad to prove that you're ordinary. The only escape route you'll need comes equipped with a roomy four door sedan and an underpowered six cylinder engine._

Damn, couldn't help himself. That forest would make excellent cover for anyone wanting to approach on foot but the playing field in between would turn that advantage to squat. A single man with an automatic would turn any attacking force to mincemeat with a single round. No, if Jonas was looking to take this place down, he'd send in a single suicide bomber, dressed in the same sort of tux that he himself was wearing, armed with a belt full of C-4. That chandelier inside would take out a lot of people with the shrapnel alone.

Jonas suddenly found his attention caught—was that a flicker of light in the forest? No, something bouncing off of a mirror, catching the sliver of moonlight. He peered into the darkness, suddenly intent on discovering what had taken his eye.

Nothing moved in the darkness, not even a last firefly of summer. A few over-age crickets chirped forlornly, an owl hooted, but nothing more.

"What is it, Jonas?" Molly asked, alerted by his stance. 'Going on point' she called it, as if he were a prized hunting dog. In a sense, he was, Jonas realized wryly. Only his master was Uncle Sam and his prey was nothing as straightforward as a forest creature.

He shook his head, as much to clear it as to reassure his wife. "Nothing," he told her. Jonas deliberately put on a smile. "Ready to go back inside?"

"Do we have to?"

She was feeling the strain as much as he did, having to lie to fellow servicemen. This time the smile was more genuine. "Would you really trust Mack not to sign us up for a ten mile hike?"

Molly considered. "No. But I would trust you to get me out of it."

Jonas laughed. "That's an awful lot of trust, Mrs. Blane."

"And that trust has been earned, Master Sergeant Blane."

* * *

Colonel Ryan made certain that he was one of the last people to exit the hall, having dined on hors d'oeuvres and over-priced booze. Dr. Ainsley had pleaded exhaustion long ago, although Ryan suspected that the man merely wanted to write up his notes and plan his attack for tomorrow. Peterson too had stayed right with Ryan, with more anxiety attacks over his men and one fight almost breaking out when one of the privates took exception to something that another private had said. Both kids with over-sized egos, and one of the reasons that Ryan enjoyed his own job: he didn't have to put up with stupidity like that. His own men conducted themselves as adults—most of the time.

The reception had gone off without a hitch, as far as his men were concerned. Brown and his wife had even done a bit of dancing, Ryan watching them and wondering where Brown had picked up those light feet. Ryan could feel Charlotte beside him wishing that Ryan himself had taken a few dance lessons. It would be useful at some of those damn Washington affairs that he found himself getting more and more invitations to. Gerhardt had tried with Tiffy, but the man just didn't have the same touch that Brown did. Didn't matter to Tiffy; she seemed pleased to be with her husband. Good; one less problem for Ryan to cope with. Even Grey was behaving himself, and of the Unit men he was the one that Ryan was more concerned about. The man sometimes had trouble keeping his hands to himself. Grey had found himself a looker, Private Suarez if Ryan remembered her name correctly, and they seemed to be hitting it off. Ryan nodded to himself.

"Tom?" Charlotte looked up at him.

Ryan looked down at his wife. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Very much," she assured him. "You?"

"Of course," he lied, knowing that she knew that he lied but would accept the answer anyway.

He was right; there was that little flicker of a moue that told him he was as transparent to her as his men to him. Charlotte moved on to another topic. "Did I hear you making plans for tennis tomorrow morning?"

"You did. Care to join? I'll see if Petersen can get his wife to make up the foursome."

"That would be wonderful, Thomas. But I'll draw the line at playing in your soccer game for the following afternoon."

"Too bad," Ryan lied again. "It should be fun."

"I shall watch," she assured him, "as I understand that Mrs. Petersen will be doing."

Ryan nodded. That too made sense, since Lt. Col. Petersen's wife wouldn't be capable of running more than a yard or two before needing to sit down. The game would be more enjoyable for them all if she too did the cheerleading thing. He relaxed, watching Mrs. Gerhardt grab one last glass before heading out into the resort with her husband.


	3. Cold 3 Unit

"Jonas?" Molly didn't sit up in bed. The air conditioner was a trace on the efficient side, and the room correspondingly cold. She clutched the bed covers over her. "Something wrong?"

"Not a thing," he assured her, staring out into the night. He was almost invisible through the darkness, only a stray light from outside creating the shadow that she could see. He had to be cold, she thought, standing there with not a stitch of clothing on, but it didn't seem to bother him. Or, if it did, then there was something more important that he was looking at.

"What's out there?"

That finally brought him back to her. He smiled, allowing white teeth to shine in the dark. "A couple of wolves," he told her. "Nothing to be concerned about." He slipped back under the covers.

It was a good way to get warm.

* * *

Blane cornered his superior officer at half-time. The soccer game had been going well, with the teams apparently evenly matched. The score stood zero all around, and more than one soldier was discovering how fit professional soccer players tended to be. This particular tidbit had been eating at Jonas all day, but he hadn't had the opportunity to discuss it; too many crowds with too many activities—and one too many army-approved psychologists. Blane made certain that the only person around was Hector Williams, barely within earshot. "A word, sir."

"Sergeant?" Ryan too glanced at his surroundings.

Blane kept his voice down. "Is there something going on that we should be aware of?"

Ryan stiffened. "Then you saw it, too. I thought it was my imagination running away with me."

"Yes, sir. A couple of lights in the distance last night." Blane looked away, reassessing who was able to listen in. There was no one close enough; certainly not any of the ladies or even Dr. Ainsley sitting in the rough stands on the far side of the field with the leftovers of the four oh ninety six. Petersen and his men/team, likewise catching their breath across the playing field, also were too far away to hear.

"Resort workers, catching a cigarette break?"

"No, sir. Those weren't any lit ends of a cigarette, nor a cigar."

"Hunters?"

"Not at two AM. Not at a fancy resort."

"True," Ryan agreed, thinking. "Kids, maybe?"

"Always that possibility, sir."

Ryan looked at Blane sideways. "We really need this R & R; you know that, don't you, Jonas?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"And this conversation we're havin' only proves it."

"Yes, sir."

"But you're still not convinced."

"No, sir, I'm not."

Ryan looked away. "Neither am I, sergeant. What say after this game is over, we take a little stroll through the woods?"

Blane nodded. "I'll let the men know." He flashed a quick grin. "And I'll inform Sgt. Grey that we do not want this game to have any overtime."

* * *

"Top?" Grey was confused.

"That's right, Sgt. Grey." Ryan came up behind Blane. "You now have my permission to run circles around them. I want this game over and done with as soon as possible. Just keep the score from getting out of hand. We don't want to make them look too bad. We still have a cover to maintain."

"Yes, sir. I'll keep it to less than three goals ahead." Grey chose not to look a gift horse in the mouth. He did look over to the stands where Private Ramona Suarez was dividing her interest between himself and Corporal Benson. Yeah, this would be good. First goal: straight through Benson at center. Maybe the second one, too, just to make certain that a certain foxy lady didn't miss the point.

Mack didn't miss the point either, but it wasn't the point that Grey was thinking of. "Colonel?"

Ryan kept his voice down, as if captaining the team. "Both Sgt. Blane and I saw some lights in the distance last night. I'd like to know what they were. They sure as heck didn't look like swamp gas."

"Yes, sir." Not one man of the Unit stiffened but they were suddenly all ears. Brown glanced at his wife, flopped on the ground several yards away and gasping to catch her breath. She'd been playing the full back position, with Mrs. Gerhardt as her opposite on the left side of the field who was likewise inhaling oxygen faster than usual. It was only fair, Petersen had told Ryan, since the four oh ninety six was fielding a couple of women as well.

Still not fair: one of the women turned out to have played a high level of soccer while in the ROTC, even participating in an international tournament or two during her collegiate career. Charlie Grey had recognized the skill, and had spent most of his time not scoring goals and keeping her from doing the same. It was almost making the game interesting, in his opinion. The score stood zero all around.

That was no longer important to Ryan's men. They were suddenly on the job, concerned with not blowing their cover as milquetoast clerical types, and concerned with making sure that innocent bystanders—namely several wives—didn't get caught in the fall out.

Ryan caught sight of the referee—one of the resort employees who claimed to know something about soccer, although both Grey and the four oh ninety six ringer both begged to differ—waving for the teams to come back to the field for the second half. He glanced at his watch; forty five minutes until regulation time was over. He could wait. Those lights in the woods had occurred at oh two hundred thirty hours, they could wait another hour to be investigated. Right now it was time to work on maintaining their cover.

The ref dropped the ball for the kick off. Bob Brown, at center, tapped it to Hector Williams on his right who immediately sent it back to Kim Brown. She came through, trapping it neatly and passing it overhead to Charlie Grey as per instructions delivered not thirty seconds previously.

Show time: Grey dribbled the ball through a multitude of defenders, dodging around three of them and bearing down on the goal-keeper who, frankly, looked terrified. This hadn't happened throughout the entire first half, and the goalie had been counting on it not happening the entire second half. The closest anyone had come to his particular side of the fence was a good ten yards away when one of the full backs had hustled over and booted the ball out of danger.

Grey grinned. He had never especially enjoyed shooting fish in a barrel but in this case he'd make an exception. He took a full moment to set up his shot on goal. The goalie, sensing a possible reprieve, did his best to figure out where Grey was aiming for. The goalie dashed toward the right side of the net.

Grey fired the ball into the left side, the heavy canvas net neatly trapping the ball in its folds.

Score: one-nothing.

Grey came trotting back up the field to rejoin his team.

"Think that was just a mite flashy, there, Carlito?" Mack grinned. "You could have waited for the rest of us to get down field."

Grey shrugged, unable to hide his own grin. "Naw. Just serving notice that kiddie time is over. It's time for the adults to play. You watch," he told them. "That Corporal Tascadero, the ringer? They'll move her to right wing, to cover me. Now, here's what we're gonna do…"

The four oh ninety-six kicked off, a high-flying field goal headed right for Tiffy Gerhardt.

"Lean into it, Tiffy!" Mack yelled.

"You lean into it," Tiffy muttered under her breath. "I haven't played soccer in years, and I never liked—"

Sheer luck, but she got under the ball, looking for all the world like one of the U.S. World cup players. The ball rebounded off of her head, never touched the ground, and soared back toward the line of scrimmage. It looked damn good, never mind that it was an accident.

"Way to go, Tiffy!" Molly cheered from beside Dr. Ainsley in the bleachers. "You go, girl!"

"My goodness, that was wonderful," Charlotte Ryan agreed. "And you say that Mrs. Gerhardt hasn't played since high school? She certainly is…" Charlotte chose her words carefully, "_athletic_."

"Yes, she is." Ainsley jotted something onto a pad of paper.

Molly saw him. "Dr. Ainsley, surely you aren't here on business. This is a soccer game, played for fun."

Ainsley merely smiled humorlessly and put away the pad. "Quite right."

But the ball, intended by Tiffy to go straight toward Col. Ryan in the front line, instead curved over to bounce in front of Cpl. Benson who didn't waste time congratulating himself on his luck. With a quick grin over his shoulder at Cpl. Suarez in the stands, he trapped the ball against his massive chest, slid it to the ground, and advanced on Jonas Blane in goal.

Benson wasn't stupid, and had played football in his younger days. This wasn't football, but some of the same rules applied and he knew to look around for the most dangerous players, the ones most likely to steal the ball from his over-sized feet. He focused on Grey as his enemy, both on the field and off.

Which was when Hector Williams slipped in front of him and stripped the ball cleanly away. Long legs pumping, Hector tapped the ball off at an angle, following up to pass it over to Mack Gerhardt who was watching and waiting his turn.

The fun began. Mack advanced several yards before two of the opposing team ganged up on him. He passed, but Ryan couldn't get to the passing point in time to collect. Tascadero, grinning, sprinted ahead of the colonel and grabbed the ball to begin the long trek back toward Blane and the goalposts.

Nope. Charlie Grey cut her off, forcing another pass that Ryan intercepted.

Getting too crowded. Ryan flipped it back to Tiffy Gerhardt, who passed it over to Kim, then to one of the tactical types that worked in the TOC, then up to Bob Brown. Brown, knowing his limitations with Benson headed right for him, made certain to hand it off to Grey before the two of them collided in a tackle that owed more to football—on both sides—than soccer.

Another goal scored.

More applause from one half of the bleachers, and not from the other. Grey winked at Tascadero who grinned good-naturedly back at him. She recognized her match, had actually known it from the opening plays when he somehow always managed to cut her off from breaking loose. It wasn't her fault that Col. Petersen hadn't listened to what she had to say. Here was the proof. She'd wondered why the score had remained so even in the first half, since someone ought to have been able to score, and here was the answer: their opponents were simply waiting to draw the four oh ninety six into complacency. Tascadero wondered if the C.O.s had any money riding on this match, and particularly if the ante had been upped over halftime. It would explain the strategy.

Ryan looked at his watch: not more than fifteen minutes had passed in the last half. They still had another thirty to kill. Once again he wished for the opportunity to change the rate at which time flowed. Those lights in the dark from the previous night were calling to him.

But… that damn shrink was watching. He'd even seen the man put away a little pad of paper, knew that Ainsley didn't need it for notes. The man would remember anything that he wanted to remember. That pad of paper was just there to spook Ryan or Petersen or someone else that Ainsley had set his sights onto. Maybe Ainsley just wanted to shake 'em all up, see what a net spread out would catch. Ryan wouldn't put it past the man. Damn shrink.

Which meant that they'd have to somehow dodge Ainsley after the game. Ryan started working on strategy on two levels at once: first, how to make the game come out right so that Petersen didn't feel like someone rubbed his nose in it, and second, how to make Ainsley feel like the men of Ryan's unit were avoiding the shrink because they couldn't stand him and not because their C.O. saw little lights twinkling in the dark. All that, and having to keep track of where the soccer ball was. Piece of cake.

He consulted his men. "You bozos think you can let these poor slobs score a goal or two without giving away the whole shebang?"

Kim Brown spoke up. "Colonel, just put me and Tiffy in the front line. You'll give them all the goals they want."

Ryan twisted a grin. "Thank you, Mrs. Brown, but I said 'without giving it all away.' They might be just a bit suspicious if we were to do as you suggest." He looked at the other team members, including the tactical types from the TOC who were breathing harder than either of the wives. Gotta up the work-out routines for 'em, he decided on the spot. Maybe himself, as well; man'd get soft making squiggles on papers with pencils, and a computer would just speed up the softening process. "Suggestions, gentlemen?"

Grey spoke up. "Not a problem, colonel. I'll just let Petersen's ringer have the ball and a bit of space. Top, you think you can dodge slow enough to let her put one in?"

Bright white teeth gleamed. "I don't believe that will be a problem, Mr. Grey. Given the lady's speed, I suspect she will be able to put that ball exactly where she wants it."

"Yeah." Charlie's eyes lit up. "In fact, let's give her two goals, make the crowd think that there's some action."

"Crowd? What crowd?" Muttered under someone's breath. "All six of 'em?"

Charlie ignored the peanut gallery. "We'll let 'em have two goals, make that last until five minutes before the end of the game. Then I'll put one in to make sure that this thing doesn't go into a shoot out. That work for you, colonel?"

Ryan grinned. "Put it into action, sergeant."

Petersen bawled from across the field. "You guys playing or figuring out how to back out?"

Blane showed white teeth. "You sure you don't have any money riding on this game, colonel?"

"It ain't money, Jonas. It ain't money."

Petersen's team kicked off, almost a duplicate play from Ryan's own people. The center touched it to the right forward who tapped it back to the right fullback. The fullback made certain to get it to Cpl. Tascadero at right wing. With a careful eye on Grey, she started forward, moving faster and faster to try and get by him.

Victory! Grey stumbled on some unseen divot in the turf, lost a step, and the race was on. Tascadero raced down the field, neatly avoiding Mack and weaving past Tiffy as though the blonde was sitting in the bleachers. Tascadero bore down on Blane in goal.

Petersen's crowd was howling with encouragement, and his team was following suit.

Blane knew that 'disaster' was running toward him, and he was ready. He was on his toes, his long arms spread wide, ready to knock the ball out of danger. His eyes were on Tascadero's every move. He was ready.

Grey was racing after them, trying to catch up, hurrying her and putting the pressure on. Tascadero chanced a quick look over her shoulder; she needed to drive the ball past Blane before Ryan's ringer got to her. She fired, aiming straight for the right corner.

Blane had been expecting her to go for the center, and he came charging out to defend the net. He reached for the ball, arm out-stretched, reaching—

He tagged the ball. It deflected—but not enough.

The soccer ball tapped the goal post, bounced—and went in.

Score: two-one.

Blane hung his head, but was magnanimous in defeat. "Nicely done, corporal. Nicely done."

"Thank you, sergeant major." Tascadero beamed, but the approbation she was really looking for came from her opposite number. And she got it: a rueful thumbs up from Grey.

The game was on. Bob Brown accepted the ball from the ref and kicked it over to Mack. Everyone on the field knew that Grey was Ryan's ringer, as was Tascadero Petersen's, and it became a battle between the two of them with the rest of the teams there for convenience in passing the ball. It slipped back and forth between the two teams, each one advancing it for a mere ten yards before being forced to give it up. Tongues started hanging out, and most of the players started to wonder if there was some way that they could gracefully sit down in the middle of the field without being called on it by their teammates.

Then it happened. Tascadero broke loose. She successfully crossed over to Mack, neatly tipping the ball away from him and slipped in past Ryan. She was way out of position, and it didn't matter. She had the ball.

Mack was grateful. This gave him the opportunity to concentrate on looking tired. It was tough; he figured that he hadn't even hit the thirteen mile mark yet, half a marathon, and he was not out of shape no matter what he wanted these bozos to think.

Ryan's team converged, but she was ready for them. Tascadero too had her wind, was still running faster than most of her opponents. She dribbled past Ryan.

"Over here!" Benson yelled at her. "I'm free."

There was a reason for that. The man was a great football tackle, but this wasn't football and he was just as likely to lose the ball this time as he had the last four times he'd gained a touch. Tascadero ignored him. There was only one goal between her and a tie, and she wanted it so bad that she could taste it.

Past Tiffy Gerhardt as though the woman wasn't there. Not hard. Kim Brown came dashing over to throw herself between the ball and the goalie. A little jig to the left, and the obstacle was cleared. One man left: the goalie. Jonas Blane, looking as big as a juggernaut. The perfect goalie: big enough to cover all ends of the net just standing there. And looking determined.

Fake him out. Make him wonder about where she was going to aim. Couldn't take too long; had Grey and a couple of the fast ones—Brown and Williams, she thought they were called—bearing down on her. They'd box her in if she didn't hurry. Angle toward the left, make Blane think she was going to cross the ball in front of him and put it into the right corner of the net, aim, fire—

Score! Ball to the upper left corner of the goal, soaring over the tall man's head! Blane had expected her to zip it past his knee, had been ready…

Had been wrong. Score: two all.

Tascadero was grinning widely as she trotted serenely back to her side of the field, her grin surpassed by her commanding officer. Petersen congratulated himself on picking some good people for this 'friendly' game. Even Kim Brown, crawling to her feet from where she'd fallen, gave her a rueful smile to acknowledge that she'd been out-played. Bob gave her a hand up.

Petersen couldn't resist pushing it into Ryan's face at the fifty yard line, waiting for the next kick off. "Sure you don't want to up the bet, colonel? Say, loser's side of the fence handles guard duty for the next two months of rotation instead of one?"

Ryan was sorely tempted. There were a lot of projects that needed completion, and the extra two months of manpower would go a long way to completing them.

But the cover came first. There was Ainsley watching this little slice of life, and there were those damn lights that he and Jonas had seen last night, and there was Charlie Grey itching to score that last goal that they'd need to make certain that this game didn't go into a shoot out and waste more time. Ryan knew that his people were gonna win, because he had the better team even if they had to work hard not to show it. Still…

_Aw, hell for breakfast_.

"You're on, Petersen," he called back, so that everyone could hear him, chin lifted so that it would look like all of his Team Pride buttons had gotten pushed. Out of the back of his head he could see Ainsley taking notes and trying to figure out how to use them to the shrink's advantage. "Hope your people like sitting around in the sun, checkin' ID's."

Petersen smirked. Bait taken. "Just thinking that your people need a chance to get a tan, colonel." He turned to his ringer. "Right past the colonel's nose, corporal. Take right past him."

"Yes, sir." Tascadero hoped that she was up to it.

Both teams settled down into a grim _this is it_ posture. Sure, there was extra guard duty at stake but even more: this was for bragging rights! Neither side wanted to lose, and both were going to fight hard.

The score was two all.

In almost a routine play, Bob Brown tapped the ball to Mack, who dropped it back to Tiffy. Tiffy neatly captured it, settled it, then passed it up to Ryan who immediately forwarded it to Hector Williams on right wing.

Not what Petersen's team expected. Grey was the ringer, and every one of Petersen's people had thought that Ryan would push it up to Grey.

But Ryan crossed it to Williams, and Petersen's people were caught flat-footed, huddled around Grey. Even Tascadero was positioned right in front of Grey, playing her position for once, instead of competing for the ball-hogging prize. Grey grinned at her: _sucker!_

Hector Williams didn't have Grey's skill, but that didn't mean that the man had never touched a soccer ball in his life. Okay, it hadn't been that many times—basketball had been his thing, with his height offering him an advantage over and above a natural athletic gift—but that didn't mean that he was about to trip over his own feet, no matter how much Petersen's people would like to see him do so. With so many people focused on Grey, he was able to move the ball swiftly down the right line virtually unopposed.

The rest of Ryan's people moved forward, chasing after him and affording him cover. So did Petersen's team. Everyone moved toward Williams, and the ball.

Which was when Williams caught it with his toe, lifted it up and over the heads of the crowd, to Grey.

Charlie Grey tapped it gently into the net, past the astonished fullbacks and goalie who had been watching Hector Williams like a hawk.

Three-two.

Many scowls, from one side of the field. Many manfully suppressed smiles from the other.

One viciously upturned smirk from a certain psychiatrist.

Ryan consulted his watch. Four more minutes, if the ref's watch agreed with his. He beckoned to Grey. "You can keep this thing under wraps? Get us out of here on time?"

Grey glanced around. "I think so. We're getting pretty winded, colonel. And we don't have any subs, like they do."

Ryan glanced at the sideline. It was true; Petersen had brought in a couple of fresh legs to bolster his team. Ryan, with a smaller group to call upon, had none.

"I make it four minutes, sergeant. You got it in you for another goal, give us some breathing room?"

Grey flashed a cocky grin. "Let's try it and find out, colonel." He glanced over at Williams. "They're gonna head through your position, Hector, yours and straight through Kim. Bob, as soon as they kick off, you drop back and reinforce Kim and Tiffy. Get the ball to me; I'll handle the rest. Got it?"

It happened just as Grey predicted: the tap, the pass backward to the full back, then a quick cross to Tascadero who had quietly switched positions from right to left wing.

Benson ran interference for her, his bulk clearing the way. The people in the bleachers could all see the years of football that he had in his background, and how good he had been.

Bob Brown stepped in the way, using his own bulk and a hefty dose of martial arts to maneuver his way through. Tascadero tried to go around him; Brown wouldn't let her.

Benson pushed through, blocking Brown from the ball. Legs tangled up; both men went down in a heap more reminiscent of football than soccer. Tascadero dodged them both and headed down the field.

Kim tried to stop her; she was out-classed from the start. Tiffy, coming up from the other side, had no better luck. Tascadero dodged them as though both wives had been tied to stakes. Grey was crossing the field at top speed, but it would be close and Tascadero knew it. It was now or never.

Just Jonas Blane, Cpl. Tascadero, and the goal. This was serious. One missed goal would mean a tie score, which would lead to a shoot out and overtime, and Blane wanted to investigate those lights _now_. He readied himself, under no illusion that it would be easy. He was fast; would he be fast enough?

Tascadero was bearing down on him. Grey was closing, Ryan on his tail, both narrowing the gap but it wouldn't be enough. It was one soccer player against another—with a possible security breach at stake.

Which way? As big as he was, no goalie could cover the entire net. The best he could hope for was to anticipate where she was going to put the ball, to knock it out of danger.

It was the eyes. It was always the eyes that told the story, the eyes that said when the shot would be fired, where the bomb was hidden, who the target would be. It was the eyes.

Tascadero kicked.

The ball screamed in like a stooping hawk, headed straight for the back left corner.

Jonas dove. Fingertips stretched. They connected. The ball deflected off the goal post and off to the side lines. Out of bounds.

The crowd—both bleachers—went wild.

Ryan breathed a sigh of relief; hidden, he hoped, from Ainsley.

"Corner kick." Grey gathered them up swiftly. "Watch Tascadero. She'll try to receive, try to out-jump me and knock it in to tie the game. Top, watch for the ball from any direction."

"Bob, you're limping." Kim watched her husband approach.

"Benson." Brown acknowledged it. "The guy's big. I'll walk it off."

"You sure, soldier?" This might be a playing field, but these were men who wouldn't stop. Ryan knew his men. "I'll take you out. The game's not worth it." The security breach might be, but it had waited this long and it could wait a little longer.

Brown couldn't put any weight onto his ankle. "I'll walk it off," he repeated. "Get into position."

There was no choice. They could play short, or they could play short with the regulation numbers of players since one was hobbling. They ringed themselves around the goal, the enemy players interspersed. All had their eyes on the man in the corner.

Petersen was doing this himself, wasn't going to leave the task of kicking the ball in to anyone else. This was it; the score was three to two, with two months of guard duty at stake. More at stake, if Petersen only knew…

Petersen kicked. The ball sailed up into the air, straight for the crowd of men and women. Petersen aimed it for the one person that he was certain would have the best chance at heading it into the goal and tying the score: Tascadero.

He missed.

Benson jumped. He was the closest, and the tallest, and the biggest. He didn't know soccer, but he learned fast. He jumped.

Bob Brown wasn't quite as tall, but he too was a natural athlete and he was motivated. He jumped, and jumped higher.

Heads cracked together, a shot heard across the field. Players converged, all seeking the ball, their comrades, or some combination thereof. And when it was all sorted out, the ball was in the goal.

Three all.

"Crap." Ryan declined to say what he was really feeling, and settled for something a little more noncommittal. "Two minutes." Not enough time for anything more than a little passing of the ball. And those lights from last night were calling his name. _Stupid, stupid_. Why hadn't he given in to temptation last night, and roused Blane to go take a look-see right then and there? Then he wouldn't be in this mess, and with that damn shrink watching his every move.

"Plus stoppage time," Grey corrected him. "Get me the ball."

Time for delegation. "Take over, Sgt. Gray."

Grey wasted no time. "Mack, center. Bob, drop back to full back, and Kim, you come forward to take Mack's place."

"Me? Charlie, I'm not fast enough—"

"You won't need to be. Here's what we do."

The whistle blew. The ref, in time with his whistle, dropped the ball for the newly minted center Mack Gerhardt to kick off.

Mack wasted no time. Instead of the gentle little tap they'd become accustomed to, he belted it over the heads of Petersen's front line and back to the end zone.

Grey streaked through the defenders as though bullets were chasing him. Too late, Tascadero realized the plan. She went into a flat out run, dashing after him.

Like every other sane pick up game among amateurs, the worst players had been sequestered in the back line where the better front linesmen would hopefully protect them from coming in contact with the soccer ball. This time, it worked against Petersen and his people.

The ball came crashing down directly between the two fullbacks. One should have called out to the other, claiming the honor of heading the ball back up toward the midway point and their own front line. If neither one could get under the ball—an unlikely happenstance, since the ball was high enough and giving plenty of notice as to where it would come down—then they could at least allow it to bounce once, then kick it back out of danger.

Neither scenario happened, and that was what Charlie Grey was counting on.

The ball hurtled to the ground with both fullbacks eying each other doubtfully. It bounced back up into the air to twice the height of the net. It was only then that the fullbacks realized that Grey was in front of them with his team barreling down behind. Petersen's front line, led by Tascadero, wasn't far behind.

The last goal wasn't going to happen, the fullbacks were certain of that. There were two of them plus a goalie versus only one ringer. Neither one of the fullbacks wanted the extra guard duty, and all they had to do was to wait for the ball to drop down one more time, trap it with one foot, and boot it away. The game would go on to a shoot out.

Except…the ball never touched the ground a second time. Or, it did, but when it did touch terra firma it was already tucked away in the goal netting.

Charlie Grey let the ball tap him on the forehead, gently aiming straight for the uppermost left corner of the goal. It soared past a flabbergasted goalie to nestle itself in the upper folds of the canvas before getting dumped to the grassy floor.

Score: four-three.

Grey got them back into position. "Ref, how much time left?"

"You got one minute forty five of stoppage."

"Right. Almost two minutes." Grey was serious. "You saw how damage can be done in under a minute, and they're motivated. Mack, give it to Hector. Hector, my man, boot it all the way back to Tiffy."

"Me?" Tiffy squeaked. "What if—"

"Not a problem. The goal here is to waste time. Top, back her up. If they get to Tiffy first, you grab the ball and sit on it. Tiffy, once you get the ball, you pass it to Brown."

"But Brown's got a busted ankle—" Ryan started to object.

"Not an issue. Bob, pass it up the line to whoever's there. Colonel, you aim for that spot, then hand it off to me if you can. Don't let the other team get a touch."

The name of the game, Ryan realized, had turned from soccer to keep-away. The seconds ticked down; one minute thirty. One minute fifteen. Each second was filled with movement, the ball passing one of his team to the next. Even Tiffy came through, neatly sliding the airborne ball down her front and then passing it to Bob Brown before anyone could get near him. Awkwardly balancing on one foot, Bob tapped it up toward one of the TOC men, the pass having little of Brown's usual power.

Keep away: pass to Ryan. To Williams. To Gerhardt. Tascadero kept closer to Grey than mayonnaise on bread, preventing him from getting a clean touch. Fifty-five seconds. Pass to Kim, terrified with Cpl. Benson looming over her like a mountain ready to let loose with an avalanche. He looked ferocious, too; his collision with Kim's husband Bob had left him with a rapidly swelling black eye. Benson's expression didn't help any. Ryan was glad that Brown had moved to the back line, or a fight might have broken out and wouldn't that have delayed his little jaunt into the woods? Kim hustled to pass it over to Williams.

Break! Petersen himself got lucky, and handed it off to Benson. The linebacker took off, barreling through the defenders, past Ryan and Williams.

"Give it to Tascadero! Give it to Tascadero!" Petersen screamed, visions of tying the score running away like Benson himself. Tascadero herself took off in pursuit of her teammate with Grey hot on her heels.

Benson stretched his legs. Ryan's defenders melted away before him, slammed backward not so much by speed but by power. His objective narrowed to one point: the goal. All else melted away. The goal was his!

Blane readied himself. Tascadero and Grey were gaining on the ball, and everyone was going to meet just before the net. Would it be enough? Would Grey get there in time to avert catastrophe? Brown was closest, was hustling over as fast as his game leg would take him. The rest of the team were hurtling down behind, Petersen's men breathing down their necks.

Everyone coming to see Jonas.

Grey pulled away from Tascadero in a burst of speed. Guard duty beckoned, and Tascadero knew that she'd be in for it. She too called on one last effort, catching up to her fellow ringer.

In all fairness, neither one would be able to say that it had been deliberate. Grey and Tascadero ended up in a tangle of legs, rolling over and over into Benson's path. Benson tried to avoid them, and couldn't without crashing into a mob of oncoming defenders. He tried anyway. He started to go down.

Last chance. Benson, seeing his opportunity fleeing, went for one last desperate kick. He kicked as hard as he could. He kicked the soccer ball with intent to fire it straight into the net and create a hole for it to fly through the netting before he hit the cold hard ground. There was only one defender between him and the goal, and that was Ryan's goal-keeper. Benson kicked and went down with the rest of the two teams. It looked like a mob scene.

The whistle blew. "Game over!" the ref yelled. "Where's the ball?"

Blane slowly uncurled himself, a black and white checked ball cradled deep in his arms. He smiled, bright white teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun.

"This what you're looking for?"

Final score: four-three.


	4. Cold 4 Unit

"Oh, crap, here he comes," Ryan muttered under his breath, breaking off from the jubilation. The rest of his team were deliberately slapping each other on the back, joking about the game and grabbing cans of beer that the resort employees had toted out for this occasion. They were hot, sweaty, and supposedly elated over their victory instead of concerning themselves about things that had gone bump in the night. So the men of the Unit acted appropriately, Mack bussing his wife soundly on the lips. High fives were passed around.

It was an act. Each one was looking to their commanding officer for the signal to make their excuses and leave.

Col. Ryan straightened his shoulders. This was going to be his baby to juggle, which meant he'd have to delegate again. He wanted to be the one to trek out into those forests and see just what the hell was going on with those lights. Instead, he was trapped into doing the mealy mouthed dirty work with slime balls to cover someone else's ass. Served him right for accepting a desk job.

Didn't mean that it didn't have to get done. Ryan sighed, and beckoned to his senior man. "Jonas, I'm gonna be stuck making nice to the good doctor headin' our way. What say you take one of your boys and check out that item we were talking about?"

Brief smile. "I will certainly do that thing, sir."

"Good." Ryan turned away just in time to greet Dr. Ainsley who had already cornered Lt. Col. Petersen. "Dr. Ainsley. Pleasure, sir," he lied. "Did you enjoy the game?"

"_Most_ interesting." The way Ainsley said it meant that it was interesting in the head-shrinking bailiwick and not the more typical sports arena. "I look forward to discussing it with you and with Col. Petersen. In detail," he added dryly.

Thomas P. Ryan had just been running for an hour and a half in the hot sun chasing a little ball. He took advantage of that fact, and moved in closer. "May I suggest that we postpone that discussion until after Petersen and I have an opportunity to clean up?" He leaned a bit closer, just to get his point—and his stink—across.

Petersen wasn't stupid. He recognized the tactic immediately, and edged in himself. He even stretched, to air out his armpits.

Ainsley tried not to breathe. "Yes, I think that would be an excellent idea, colonel. Perhaps over dinner?"

"Delighted." Maybe he could get Charlotte to stick around throughout the meal. She was so much better at handling this pansy, could keep him off Col. Ryan's back. There was just something about Ainsley that set Tom Ryan's teeth on edge.

All part of the job, Ryan repeated to himself. Keep idiots like Ainsley at bay so that his men could work unhindered at saving the country. He turned to Petersen, plastering a very real smile on his face. "Now, I believe you said something about _two_ months of guard duty, colonel?"

* * *

Blane took Mack with him; his second was damn good in the woods and could follow the trail of a butterfly if he needed to. Each had quickly showered, changing into clothes suitable for hiking but not so out of the ordinary that they couldn't explain their actions away to any questioner. Neither made any attempt at not being seen leaving the resort building, but neither tried to stand out. Looking suspicious was the last thing they wanted. Walk out as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and nobody would notice. They moved swiftly toward the wooded area where both Blane and Ryan had seen the lights. 

Mack looked through the trees. "How far?"

Blane tried to remember. "Not too far. Maybe a hundred yards or so. Maybe a little bit more."

"And both you and the colonel saw it from your rooms." Mack peered back at the resort, estimating where those rooms were located. "That one yours, second from the left?"

"It is, sergeant."

"And the colonel's?"

"I believe his and Mrs. Ryan's quarters are located at the other end of the hall."

"Near to the center of the building, where the elevator comes up," Mack muttered to himself. "That gives us a line of sight in this direction." He turned, and peered through the trees, still talking mostly to himself. "In order to see anything, it'd have to be fairly close to the edge of these trees. Too far back, and the lights wouldn't have been seen and we wouldn't be out here. We've got a line of trees here, and then a lot of bushes that haven't been disturbed, no broken twigs. Not seeing any footprints…" He squatted, fingered the soil. "Pretty soft; it'd hold a print for a while. And it didn't rain last night. Getting a bit cold, but the ground isn't frozen yet." He looked up. "You sure you saw something, Jonas?"

"I am not, Mack," Jonas admitted, "but Col. Ryan also saw something. While I can certainly believe that my imagination is running away with me, I doubt it has joined up with his for a double play."

"You've got a point," Mack agreed. He pushed back the brush, searching for anything that might answer the question of what both men saw. "I'm just not finding any—_hello_."

"Mack?"

Mack gently parted the twigs, reached in for a slender something and pulled it out. "Well, lookee what we have here. A nice little snipped piece of wire, and don't it look new. Wonder what it's doing out here away from anything electrical?" He straightened up. "How much you want to bet that someone was playing with some lights powered by a couple of high end batteries last night?"

"I will not take that bet, sergeant," Jonas told him. "My momma didn't raise a fool for a son." He paused. "Now why do you think someone would be out in the middle of the night flashing lights around? If I recall, there was frost on the ground; not enough to freeze the ground but enough to be wearing a heavy coat. It was cold. What idiot would go out in the cold?"

"An idiot with an errand." Mack knew the answer to that one. "Question is, what was the errand?"

Blane nodded slowly. "And that, Sgt. Gerhardt, is what we need to find out." He straightened, offered Gerhardt a hand up. "What say we do a little more hiking in these woods?"

* * *

Blane made certain to stop his C.O. in the hallway outside of the evening's cocktail hour, prior to walking in. "Sir." 

"Sergeant." Ryan paused, turned to his wife. "Head on in, Charlotte. I'll be with you in a moment."

"Tom?" There was clearly a question in her words and on her face.

"I'll be in shortly," Ryan repeated.

Her face didn't fall, but Charlotte clearly knew a dismissal when she heard one. She just didn't like it.

She didn't have to. This was not her battlefield, it was his. Her turn would come later, when he was doing the verbal foxtrot with the shrink. Ryan kept his voice down. "What did you find?"

"Evidence that someone was there." Blane's voice was deep, but not even anyone passing would have been able to distinguish what he was saying.

"And—?"

"Nothing more, sir. Nothing to suggest who, or why. There were at least two of them, possibly three."

"What were they doing there?"

"Difficult to determine. Best guess: watching."

"Watching? Watching what?"

Blane dropped his voice another decibel. "Or who. Whom."

"Or whom." Ryan accepted the amendment. "We got any celebrities here besides you and me?"

"Not that I am aware of, sir, and none that any of my men recognize."

"Nor any of the ladies," Ryan mused. "I wouldn't put it past any of 'em to know who's who in the non-military world, and none of 'em have said anything, not even my wife. So who are our friends spyin' on, Jonas?"

"Good question, sir. Permission to do a little poking about, sir."

"Permission granted, sergeant. Just don't get caught. Just don't get caught," Ryan repeated, more for his own comfort than any real need to be understood. He collected himself. "Let's head on in. We've got people waitin' for us."


	5. Cold 5 Unit

Same ballroom, same cast of characters, same divisions along company lines for this evening's obligatory cocktail hour. The military folks swirled about, moving from grouping to grouping, generally sticking to the people that they already knew, the non-military business team-building squad huddling in one corner of the room sipping white wine and casting half-distainful half-envious eyes in the direction of the fighting men and women. Only a few managed to cross the various boundaries, meeting with some resistance and generally ignoring it.

Grey was one such. Taking advantage of his previous exploits on the soccer field, he'd hooked up with Pvt. Suarez and was now working to see if he could successfully extract her more fully from the smoldering attentions of Cpl. Benson. Sure, Charlie was being used. Ramona Suarez knew exactly what she was doing, and, privately, Charlie thought that if she'd put as much work into her job as she did into her social life then Pvt. Suarez would be out-ranking Cpl. Benson in less than a year. But Charlie wasn't about to look that far in the future. A little immediate cheap entertainment was what both he and Ramona Suarez were after.

Yeah, it was entertaining. Mack sat on the sofa, one eye on the game being played on the wide screen TV over the bar, one eye on his buddy's antics, and one arm tossed carelessly over his wife's shoulders. The other arm held a beer, already his second of the night. His face held a grin.

Gerhardt wasn't the only one watching the scene play out. Dr. Ainsley had spotted the trio immediately; in fact, Ryan could swear that the shrink had already categorized them as trouble-makers and had all three names in that little damn notepad of his for follow up.

All right, time to send his own troops in to battle. Ryan fetched a glass of beer for himself and white wine for the missus, steering them both toward Ainsley. He handed the glass over to his wife. "Charlotte."

"Thank you, Thomas." Charlotte accepted her glass with a brilliant smile. She turned her attentions to Ainsley. "Did you enjoy the game today, Dr. Ainsley?"

_Nothing like goin' for the throat, Charlotte. Have at it_.

Ainsley's return smile would have looked appropriate on a hungry Great White. "Very much so, Mrs. Ryan. Very much so. I found a surprising amount of talent on both teams. Talent of all sorts." He let the phrase hang in the air, fishing, letting the silence grow uncomfortable.

_What the hell are you after, doc?_

Charlotte timed it just right, letting the silence stretch out far too long not be deliberate, yet long enough to let the psychologist know that the invitation to war had been accepted. She simply shifted her weight from one foot to the other, sipping delicately at her wine, waiting for Ainsley to make a further comment.

_Beautiful. Not a word spoken, yet point scored. One for the good guys_.

Ainsley was forced to expand, but this time he tried to attack a weaker target. "Were you aware of your team's extraordinary skill with a soccer ball, colonel?"

"My men have many skills, doctor," Ryan replied blandly. "Not all of 'em show up on their military record. But we do have a fair understanding of logistics, and that seemed to work in our favor today. Close game, wasn't it?" _Didn't rub it in anybody's face. Did you notice that, doc?_ "That Pvt. Tascadero, wasn't she somethin'? She had us going, there. Almost thought she was gonna do us in."

"Yes, quite a fine player. Almost as good as your man, what was his name? Grey?" Ainsley made a point of looking around, spotting Grey in the corner with Suarez and Benson glowering at them from a barstool. "Your Sgt. Grey is adept at networking. He seems to make liaisons where ever he goes."

_You sayin' what I think you're sayin', doc? Let's see if we can steer you away from my man with the roaming hands. He can get himself in enough trouble without you helpin' him along_.

"Quite a useful skill, wouldn't you say, Dr. Ainsley?" Charlotte inquired blandly. "I find that knowing people is so useful in my own work among the diplomats of Washington. One never knows when one will need to call upon others for assistance."

_Damn. If that weren't ever a veiled threat. Lethal, Mrs. Ryan. Glad you're on my side._

But Ainsley, having launched the attack, was ready. "I quite agree, Mrs. Ryan. I have often had reason to call upon my own cadre of associates. I find their input to be invaluable."

Charlotte showed her teeth. "Then, seeing that is a time of relaxation, Dr. Ainsley, we must see that you shall have no reason to request that input. So do put away your papers and your notes, doctor, and join us in our merriment."

Which was the moment that Bob Brown ambled up, glass in one hand and wife tucked under the other arm. "Colonel, Mrs. Ryan. Doctor."

"Sgt. Brown." Ryan returned the greeting. "How's the ankle?"

"Much better, thanks—" Brown started to say when Kim interrupted him.

"I wanted him to get it looked at," she said, still half-scolding her errant husband, "but, as usual, he wouldn't listen."

"Kim—"

"That right, soldier? You still limpin'?"

"It'll be better by morning," Bob protested.

Ryan took a hard line approach. "See that it is, sergeant, or I'll be issuing you a direct order. Clear?"

"Yes, sir." The only excuse for no salute was that the saluting hand held a glass of alcohol.

Ryan accepted that excuse with a nod. "Then go take a load off, soldier. Mrs. Brown, I suspect I'll be able to count on you to keep him in line."

"You sure can, colonel." Kim put on a half-smile. She'd won her little skirmish. "C'mon, Bob. I see a chair with your name on it. Right next to Sgt. Gerhardt and his wife."

"Yes, ma'am." Brown winked at Mrs. Ryan and limped off, arm still around his wife, aiming for the bar and his fellow unit members.

He dropped himself and his wife onto the coach next to Mack. Tiffy greeted them both with a big smile. "Enjoying yourselves?" she asked.

"Nice place," Brown told her. "Lots of nice people."

"What is _he_ doing here?" Tiffy meant Dr. Ainsley. "I mean, he's not part of your unit or the four oh ninety six. He can't be here for relaxation."

"Oh, he's not." Hector perched himself on a the barstool opposite, so that he could look down on the two couples—and across the room to where his commanding officer stood conversing with the subject of Tiffy's concern. "Believe me, he has a purpose."

"Which is—?"

Hector spread a wide smile. "To make as many of us as miserable as possible. To misery!" He raised his glass.

"Hear, hear."

"Yo."

"To misery!"

Hector changed the subject. "So, Bob, a little bird told me that you're pretty good at shooting pool. I saw a table in the other room. Up for a lesson?"

Brown grinned. "Who told you that? They lied."

Kim punched him in the shoulder. "I told him that, Bob."

Brown looked so innocent, butter could melt in his mouth. "She lied, Hector. I'm terrible at pool. You'll take all my money." He turned back to Kim. "You and the kids don't need to eat for the next month or two, do you? And the shoes with the holes in them are just fine. It'll be summer in about nine months. You won't need shoes then."

"Bob—!"

Hector smirked. "C'mon, Bobby boy. Let's see if I can show you how it's done."

"Okay, but don't blame me if I get bored and start whining, watching you make all the shots." Brown dropped a kiss on his wife and levered himself up off of the sofa.

"Shall I come watch?" Kim asked.

"What? Embarrass me in front of you?" Brown blew her a kiss. "Nope. There are some things that men have to do without ladies, and this'll be one of 'em. Besides," he leaned over to confide, "with you there, you'll distract me with your charms, and then I won't be able to sucker Hector into losing all of his money to me. Be back in a few," he added, limping off in Hector's wake.

Kim gave a rueful smile, watching her husband exit the ballroom. "Maybe I should go anyway," she murmured.

"Nah," Gerhardt told her. "Let him go. This is just the warm up. They feel each other out, try out a few fancy shots. Later in the week, that's when the show will be. Besides," and he leaned over Tiffy to lower his voice, "I've got it on a pretty good authority that one of Petersen's guys has been boasting about his billiards act. I think Hector wants to beat him at his own game, and needs to sharpen his own skills just a mite." He leaned forward, preparatory to getting up. "I'm going to grab a plate of munchies. Want any, Tiffy? Kim?"

"Sounds good," Tiffy said. "Some of those little shrimp things?"

"Buffalo wings," Kim said immediately.

"Ah. The lady likes scorched taste buds."

"With plenty of blue cheese dressing," Kim told him. "And, yes, scorched taste buds are delicious."

* * *

Col. Ryan escorted his wife to the hors d'oeuvre table, holding her wine glass while she selected from the delicacies. Col. and Mrs. Petersen joined them, as did Dr. Ainsley, the doctor trailing after the couples and juggling both his glass and his plate. Ryan tried to surreptitiously ease his collar. Charlotte kept telling him that it looked fine, but the damn thing always felt too tight. Give him a choice, he'd take fatigues any day. He looked longingly at the buffalo wings that his wife passed over as too messy to eat, wondering if he'd get a chance to go back for seconds without her noticing what he was grabbing.

Jonas and Molly Blane joined them. Ryan brightened. Help was on the way.

"Here, Mrs. Ryan," Molly said. "Why don't you try some of the wings? They're a bit hot, but still very good."

"I don't think—"

"Excellent idea, Mrs. Blane," Ryan beamed. Bless the woman! Charlotte was a damn good choice for a wife where Ryan was going, but he'd need to loosen her up a bit where fun was concerned. They needed to live in both worlds, he reflected; both uptight Washington and the 'git 'er done' Army life.

"You too, Dr. Ainsley," Molly continued, taking charge. "They're _almost _as good as the ones I make. Isn't that right, Jonas?"

"Absolutely," Jonas agreed instantly, clearly knowing what was good for him if he ever wanted to eat a good, home-cooked meal ever again.

Ainsley changed the subject, also knowing what was good for him and his under-protected taste buds. "I enjoyed your efforts on the soccer field, sergeant."

"Thank you, sir. Does a man good to get out in the fresh air and run around for a bit."

Ainsley pushed. "Seems like you and yours were showing a bit more effort than was needed against Colonel Petersen and his men."

"If you're referring to Cpl. Tascadero, sir, then you are absolutely incorrect. We needed to put our best foot forward against her. The lady is very talented on the soccer field." Blane took a sip from his glass to indicate that he'd finished speaking.

"Actually, I was referring to Cpl. Benson," Ainsley said dryly. "Or am I mistaken that there is no love lost between your men and the corporal?"

"Sir, I do not know what you mean. This was just a friendly little game of soccer." Sgt. Blane stood up straight.

"Which you won."

"Yes, sir, we did and proud of it. It was a well fought game. Only right to do your best at all times. Next time we might not be as lucky."

"Or as skillful?" The sarcasm weighed a little more heavily.

"Sir?" Blane stiffened just a hair, and Ryan had to keep from applauding the performance. "I'm not certain what you mean, sir."

"Yes, doctor." Petersen put his two cents in, knowing that his own people were being disparaged as well. "What do you mean?"

Ainsley eyed each of the men in turn. "I mean, gentlemen, that there is something more going on here than meets the eye. This is not merely about a simple soccer game." He focused on Ryan, ignoring the women. "How often does the Army shell out for a paid vacation for two entire divisions? There's a budget crunch going on, and Congress is not happy over the amounts of money being spent by the military. Why are we here?"

"Frankly, that's what I'd like to know—" Ryan started to say.

Petersen interrupted. "That's a question that you'll need to refer to my superiors, Dr. Ainsley," he said stiffly. "The orders came down from Washington. My superiors felt that this particular base would benefit from this team-building exercise and would justify the expense. If you feel otherwise, I suggest that you take it up with them. In the meantime, I resent the implication that either team did not play to the highest standards of both their abilities and the honor of their respective divisions."

"I didn't mean—"

"'Fraid I have to second that, doctor," Ryan said, inwardly grinning, fighting to keep the smirk off of his face. _Ruin the effect if I laugh_.

"Then why—"

"Why didn't we beat the pants off of 'em the first half? Two reasons, Ainsley." Ryan warmed to his subject, watching Ainsley's face go wooden. "First off, you're talkin' to tactical experts. How else was I supposed to lure Petersen here into a sucker bet, 'cepting by playing it cool the first half? Second, it wasn't such a sucker bet; I didn't know he had a ringer until she trotted off after the ball that my man was supposed to nab. But we stuck to our strategy, and it paid off." He turned to his counterpart. "Double or nothing, colonel?"

"Not such a sucker as all that, colonel," Petersen returned. "I learned my lesson. My ringer says your ringer could have played pro, and she says that while she can handle two months at guard duty, four means that I'm going to join her in that guard house and take my turn." He grinned. "Now, tennis, on the other hand…"

"The way you whupped me this morning? Not in this lifetime."

"Not even a tournament…?"

Ryan considered it. He'd heard that Mack Gerhardt could handle a mean racket. Question was, was he good enough to get Ryan four months of extra man power? And that ankle of Brown's, how bad was it and would it heal by game day? On the other hand, Ryan would only lose what he gained if he was wrong. Hmm… wonder if Petersen had a tennis ringer on his side?

Time for more intel. He turned to Blane who only had four dossiers in his head instead of one hundred. "Sergeant? What do you think? Worth the risk?"

Blane put on a big grin. "Tennis? Oh, yes, sir," he drawled. "I think we can handle that." He dropped his voice another octave, making it very deep. "And I will be grateful to give up the additional guard house detail."

Ainsley scowled. His attempt to push his audience into losing control and giving up valuable personal data that he could file away for later use had failed. He looked around; surely there was someone else that he could pick on. He had plenty of targets. He simply had to select the proper one to make these soldiers jump through the hoop of his choosing. "Where's Brown?"

Blane looked quizzical. "Over there, on the sofa with his wife, watching the Rams toast the Dolphins on that wide screen TV. He's hidden by the crowd but you can see her. Little bit of a thing, short brown hair. Right there."

Ainsley peered. "I've met Mrs. Brown. I can see her, but not him."

"Then look harder," Blane advised. "He's there. I can see him from up here," referencing his more than three inches above Ainsley's height. "You need him for something? I can fetch him."

"No. No," Ainsley repeated, frustrated. "I'll talk with him later." He paused. "No, I'll find him myself. Stay here, sergeant," he ordered.

"You got a problem with one of my men, doctor?" Ryan went on alert.

"Not yet," Ainsley said ominously, " and I'd like to keep it that way." He set down his plate, unable to juggle anything more in his hands. "I'll talk with you later." He nodded his head. "Colonel, ladies. Sergeant," he said by way of a dismissal.

Blane watched him weave across the room. "Sir?"

Ryan shrugged nervously. "You got me, sergeant. What say we keep an eye on the good doctor?"

"Yes, sir." Blane accepted the plate of wings that his wife pressed on him.


	6. Cold 6 Unit

Hector looked both ways down the long hotel corridor. It was empty; the room service waiter had pushed his cart into the elevator not fifteen seconds ago, and Hector had double-checked to be certain that the man had gotten on the lift and not merely let the sound lull the sergeant into a false sense of security. He nodded to his compatriot. Neither one was anywhere close to the billiards room. Neither one, despite their earlier conversation, had had any intention of shooting pool.

Bob Brown wasted no time. The lock pick was already in his hand, waiting to be used, and Brown used it.

It wasn't even a challenge. These were locks designed to be opened with a credit card-looking piece of plastic, but there were other ways through and while Brown didn't know them all, he knew enough so that getting into this particular guest room was quick and easy. He eased the door open.

It was about the same size as Brown's own room, a king size bed in the center with a chest of drawers along one wall with a small TV on top of it. One corner boasted a simple desk, with a laptop closed and dark and still plugged into the wall. Both Brown and Williams ignored the laptop; it would be password-protected and would take too long to pull anything out of. Instead, Brown aimed for the papers neatly stacked in manila folders beside it. Williams stayed by the door, listening, preventing discovery.

It didn't take long. Brown swiftly perused the files available for inspection, flipping open his cell and using the camera function to take pictures of as many documents as he could. Then, silently, still without a word, they slipped back out into the corridor.

* * *

"'Nother beer, Tiffy?" Mack Gerhardt hoisted himself to his feet, stifling the groan. The sofa was comfortable, and he'd played long and hard at soccer this afternoon.

Tiffy smiled, taking advantage of full lips. "Yes."

"You, Kim?"

"No thanks, Mack," Kim replied. "How long is that husband of mine going to be playing pool?" She looked around, wondering if she could see him, trying to figure out where the billiards room was. "Maybe I should go look for him. He's been a while. He's missing the game."

"Let the boy have some fun," Mack advised. "He'll be back in a few. You sure you don't want another beer?"

Kim's attention was caught by another moving figure. "Oh, look, there's that Dr. Ainsley. You know, I'm still wondering what he's doing here. You don't suppose it was his idea for this retreat, do you? This isn't the usual type of thing that the Army does. At least, not the Army that I'm used to." She looked again. "He's heading this way. What do you think he wants?"

"Beats me." Mack shrugged. "Now ask me if I care." He waved his empty beer mug around for emphasis. "What I care about right now is filling my glass." He bowed mockingly. "I shall return."

"Either with your shield or on it," Tiffy chimed in.

In the other corner of the bar area, Grey caught the signal. He suppressed the sigh. He'd been hoping that this evening wouldn't require completion of his part of the plan. _What I do for my country…or, at least, my unit_.

He turned to the woman beside him, the one that he'd been cultivating since last night, the one that had been cultivating him, but for another purpose. "You are one foxy lady," he whispered in her ear. The little wriggle in his arms proved that Pvt. Suarez was far from deaf, and that she was more than a little interested.

Of course, Pvt. Suarez, Ramona to her friends of whom Charlie was now one, was interested in more than just one thing. She was in a win-win situation, she knew, and one that she was about to capitalize on.

Ramona licked Charlie's ear.

Right where Cpl. Arnold Benson could see them.

Cpl. Benson had been nursing a beer for most of the evening. That wasn't quite accurate; Cpl. Benson had been gulping down _several_ beers while watching the scene that Pvt. Suarez had set up for his amusement, and now, while not drunk, certainly had enough of a buzz to blur his judgment. His comrades, recognizing the impending blow up, had prudently left the six foot six corporal strictly alone.

Benson had had enough. Ramona Suarez was his girl. She'd told him so, on several occasions, never mind that she'd walked home alone the last time he'd taken her out. Simple misunderstanding; Ramona knew that. She was still his girl. That other one, that dancer in the bar, that was nothing. Ramona knew that, or she ought to. Benson had told her enough times of that fact.

She was just teaching him a lesson, this flirting with another guy where Benson could see them. Not even much to look at, scrawny guy, not much taller than Ramona herself. Guy could handle himself on a soccer field, and had had the same hand to hand training that Benson himself had gone through in Basic, but face it: Benson was bigger, and stronger, and meaner. Better looking, too. Benson had muscles. This little guy, he was from the other side of the fence, the logistics unit, the side that figured out how many breath mints to ship over to the guys in Iraq.

Yeah, Ramona was just teaching him a lesson, not to wink at other women. Okay, he got the message. He had gotten the message a week ago, when Ramona had walked home alone. He'd gotten it again when she refused to return any of his increasing urgent messages on her cell. Time to teach her a lesson in return, that 'forgive and forget' was a good way to be when Arnie came calling. It's what he expected would happen, once they were together here at this resort. He wanted to show her a good time, let her show him a good time in exchange. He stood up.

The room quivered just slightly, but anger did a hell of a fine job in burning the buzz off. He advanced, and grabbed Ramona by the arm. He hauled her up off of the sofa where she had been sitting next to Grey. "C'mon. You're with me."

"Hey!" Suarez objected. "Arnie, let go! You're hurting me!" That was real, unlike her previous comments in Charlie's ear.

Grey jumped to his feet, a little difficult when trying to get up out of a soft and deep sofa—but then, he'd deliberately picked this particular seat when planning this. "Let go of her, guy. What do you think you're doing?"

"Stay out of this, runt." Benson's beer-stained breath was the most dangerous thing about him at the moment, even if Pvt. Suarez thought otherwise. Benson turned back to the object of his foray. "You're coming with me, doll."

"I am not!" Fire flared. Suarez tried to pull away. "Let go of me, Arnie!"

"Look, man." Grey tried to talk reason. He grabbed onto Benson's arm, intending to separate the corporal and the private. "Calm down—"

Was it Grey's fault that he just happened, purely by luck, to grab onto Benson's arm right at the pressure point that caused enough pain so that the average man would drop whatever he held in that arm? Was it Grey's fault that, in his eagerness to separate Ramona Suarez from a man that she clearly despised, he grabbed hold of that pressure point with more intensity than would normally be expected, causing Benson to release the lady they were fighting over?

Several things happened in rapid succession: first, Benson dropped Ramona's arm, which was the intended action. Second, Benson indicated his immense displeasure and pain at Charlie Grey's actions by roaring loudly enough to rattle the chandelier high above their heads in the elegant ballroom. Third, Benson took a swing at his enemy.

Grey ducked. The massive fist caught him on the shoulder, not in the face as Benson had intended, but it still rocked Grey back and off his feet. Such was the power behind the large man's anger.

It caught the attention of the entire room. It was hard to miss: Benson was big enough to garner interest where ever he went, and a roaring bull of a soldier in a normally sedate resort ballroom was enough to cause everyone to stop what they were doing and gawk.

Benson went in for the kill.

Not fast enough. Mack Gerhardt had seen what was happening, had been in position to calm the whole incident. Gerhardt grabbed Benson, twisting his arm back into a classic half-Nelson. Lt. Rowe, Benson's superior officer, was right beside him, taking hold of the other arm so that Benson couldn't escape.

"I think you've had enough to drink, corporal," Rowe said grimly. "Outside. Fresh air. Now."

"She's—"

"That wasn't a request, corporal," Rowe told him, steel in the lieutenant's voice. He tossed a glance over his shoulder; Dr. Ainsley had seen the dust up, and was headed in their direction like a bee to a flower. "Outside. Now." He shoved Benson in the direction of the door, Mack giving a helpful push to move the larger man where Rowe wanted him.

"But—"

"Now, corporal." Neither Lt. Rowe nor Sgt. Gerhardt was taking no for an answer.

From the other side of the room, both Ryan and Petersen had observed the ruckus. "Crap," Petersen muttered under his breath. "I should have seen this coming." He set his glass down. "Excuse me, colonel. Business to attend to."

"Before Ainsley beats you to him?"

"Before Ainsley beats me to him," Petersen acknowledged ruefully. "Which means that I'd better hustle."

* * *

Hector walked in, Brown trailing him, just as Mack returned and dropped onto the sofa next to Tiffy. Grey too ambled over to perch on the arm of the sofa. Hector eyed his fellow unit member curiously. "I hate to break this to you, Charlie, but you look a trifle mussed. Where's that lady you were chasing? She dump you for somebody better looking?"

"Who, Ainsley?" Grey snorted. "No, the doc dragged her off for some 'counseling'. Who knows what he's gonna put in her head?" He grimaced. "Is it my fault the big guy can't tell when he's not wanted? Which, by the way: thanks, Mack."

"Any time, Carlito, any time." Mack suddenly sat up straight. "Damn. Forgot the beer."

Grey got back to his feet. "My treat. Least I can do, seeing as how you pulled my fat out of the fire. That dude was a big one."

Mack smirked. "'Treat'? Carlito, it's an open bar. You're not spending a dime."

"Sure, but I'm doing the heavy lifting," Grey shot back. "How many? Mack, Hector, Bob. Ladies, you?"

"Bring a pitcher," Tiffy told him. "We'll leave it on the coffee table." She scooted over to make room for Kim's husband. "It looks like your ankle is feeling better, Bob," she observed.

"Beg pardon?" Bob looked almost startled. "Yes, thank you. Just needed to walk it off."

"All he did was walk around the pool table," Hector said. "Kim, hate to tell you this, but don't let your husband anywhere near the credit cards when he's playing pool."

"Really? You mean there's something he's not good at?"

"I wasn't that bad," Bob protested. "The cue sticks were warped. And so was the table."

"The only thing warped was your aim," Hector teased. "How can a man so good on the practice range be so bad at shooting pool?"

"Maybe I'm just trying to convince you that I'm inept, so that I can lure you into some big bucks."

"It's working. I'm convinced."

"You missed the excitement," Kim informed her husband, changing the subject. "Charlie started a brawl."

"I did not," Grey protested, bringing back the pitcher of beer and enough fresh glasses for the entire group.

"Yes, you did," Tiffy grinned. "Didn't you see how that big ape was glaring at you and that girl you were with? Glaring for the last twenty four hours? Glaring ever since you said your first word to that girl?"

Grey shrugged. "Can I help it if I'm devastating to the opposite sex?"

Mack nearly choked on his beer. "Next time I should let him kill you."

"Not a bad idea," Hector observed, pouring out the beer. "More beer for the rest of us."

A shadow fell over the group; Col. and Mrs. Ryan arrived with Sgt. and Mrs. Blane. Ryan, having shaken off the unwelcome presence of the psychologist who had taken over one of the small conference rooms in order to 'sort out' the brawl that had just occurred with the able assistance of both Col. Petersen and Lt. Rowe, was now in an expansive mood. "Gentlemen," he greeted them, "and ladies. In the finest tradition of the old gentlemen's clubs, can I invite you to join me over cigars and brandy?" He pulled out a box, the rich tobacco scent wafting forth to tickle their noses.

"Nice." Gerhardt inhaled deeply. "I won't ask what bank you robbed to afford those."

"Good, because these are not cheap knock-offs doused in cheaper perfume. These are meant to be savored, sergeant."

"And what, pray tell, are we ladies supposed to do while you gentlemen amuse yourselves risking cancer and liver damage?" Charlotte asked.

Ryan looked nonplussed. "What did ladies always do while their men went for brandy and a smoke after dinner?"

"Needlepoint," Molly told him, adding, "I don't do needlepoint."

Ryan tried a helpless look. It didn't quite come off, but Charlotte took pity on him anyway. "Never mind, Thomas. I'm certain that we can find something to pass the time. We'll gossip about your short-comings, if nothing better appeals to us."

"Take your time," Molly put in. "We can be at it all night."

"_All_ night," Kim said directly to Bob with a look that a blind man could have interpreted.


	7. Cold 7 Unit

It wasn't a drawing room, but it was a small conference room and the chairs were comfortable. Ryan left the door halfway open to give the appearance that everything was open and above board, but every man in that room kept his voice down.

More appearances: Ryan handed out the cigars that had cost him more than he cared to admit to, while Blane offered up a bottle of brandy that hadn't come from the bar but from a small part of the world that no American had officially been to in the last four years. Mack had cadged brandy snifters from the bar tender, and was serving the golden liquid to the other five.

Ryan sniffed at the beverage appreciatively. "Very nice, Jonas. Very nice."

"A gift," Blane told him, "from someone that I was fortunate enough to be of service to."

"Some service."

"Indeed, sir. Indeed."

They took a few moments to light the cigars, filling the room with pungent tobacco fumes, exchanging small talk mostly about the near brawl and the soccer game; all very normal and inconsequential. Grey positioned himself near the door so that he could both listen and observe anyone parading along the hall.

Ryan got down to business. "And?"

"You nailed it, sir," Hector reported. "Ainsley was sent. It was in his files."

"By who?"

Brown looked serious. He named the name.

There were frowns all around. "He's not part of the chain of command," Gerhardt said. "What's he doing, telling military shrinks what to do and where to go?"

Blane agreed. "This whole thing stinks to high heaven. Ainsley had one thing right: the Army doesn't send its people to resorts like this, not for team-building and not for anything. They want us to act like a team, they assign us to build latrines with another unit until we all stink as badly as each other."

"Question is, what can we do about it?" Brown asked, his eyes serious with worry. "Colonel, who signed our own orders?"

"My C.O. back in Washington," Ryan sighed, "but I'm certain that someone was pushing his buttons. He didn't sound too happy over this, either. The phrase 'waste of time and money' was floatin' around in there."

Mack had latched onto the important part. "So who's pushing his buttons? And why do they want us here? There are no strategic targets in this area. We're almost at the Canadian border, for cripes' sake. Last I heard, Canada was not a hot bed of terrorist activity, and I'm not counting the Canucks pushing for a separatist Quebec."

Blane frowned. "I seem to recall an old bunker, not too far from here. It was abandoned years ago, when the Cold War died away. Not even used for storage, I believe, at the moment."

"Yeah, I remember that one." Mack's eyes lit up. "It was on a map that we looked at, several months ago, for a mission. It was boarded up back then. You think somebody's using it, now?"

"We may be able to find out." Brown crossed the room to the dark computer sitting quietly in the corner.

"There's no secure line here," Ryan warned.

"Doesn't need to be," Brown returned. "What we need may well be on public access. Just go to Google map, and…" he trailed off. "Interesting."

"Yeah?" The rest of them, minus a fuming Charlie still posted at guard, crowded around him.

"Real time?"

"Real time," Brown confirmed.

"I don't see anything. All I see is woods."

"Right. That's all you're supposed to see. They aren't allowed to hand out satellite pictures of secret military installations. Kind of takes away the 'secret' part."

"So what's so interesting?"

"That bunker is no longer a secret installation. It was abandoned years ago, if what you and Jonas remember is true. It should show up, as an old campground if nothing else."

"So if it's not showing up, it's back in use." Ryan straightened back up. "How far is it from here?"

Brown caused the screen to pull back, and watched for the legend to pop up. "Roughly fifteen to twenty miles, but the road probably isn't too good. Figure at least half an hour to get there. Assuming that's what you're thinking, sir."

Ryan frowned. "I'm not certain _what_ I'm thinkin', Brown. We may be barkin' up the wrong tree. We could be seein' shadows where there are none."

"Yes, sir." Brown accepted that.

"On the other hand…" Ryan thought hard. "What say we organize a little hiking trip first thing tomorrow morning? Brown, can you print out a couple of copies of that map? It sure as hell ain't much, but it's a damn sight better than nothin'." He looked at Hector. "You can break out those contraband weapons that you and Sgt. Grey toted along, Williams."

"Sir! We never—"

"Stow it, sergeant."

* * *

Jonas Blane was at the door to his hotel room before the third quiet tap on his door had a chance to hit the air. A quick peek out through the peep hole identified the door's assailant as his commanding officer, standing in the corridor and looking both ways, watching for anyone else to come out of their room at the ungodly hour of three AM. In the distance, he could hear some of the Four Oh Ninety Six still carousing, the ones who didn't have bed partners to better spend time with. 

Jonas glanced back at the other lump in the bed. Molly was sleeping soundly, but that would change, he knew, if the loss of additional body heat under the covers didn't return shortly. What he was about to hear would determine whether or not she would continue to rest. He slipped out through the door. They kept their voices down.

Ryan wasted no time. "Assemble the men. There's trouble."

"Sir?"

"We're being reactivated. Vacation time's over, sergeant, and I'm hoping that Grey and Williams tucked a few vests of armor where ever they stashed their M-16's."

"No, sir, they did not." Not a smile cracked Blane's face. "That was Sgts. Gerhardt and Brown."

Ryan grimaced. Yeah, he knew his men all right. "And us, Sgt. Blane? Can I assume that we also were totin' along some contraband in that oversized sedan you rented, in direct violation of my orders?"

Bright flash of white teeth in the dark. "Yes, sir."

"Where was it, sergeant?"

"With respect, sir, you do _not_ want to know."

* * *

Kim's eyes were huge in the dim light, watching her husband throw on clothing appropriate for the almost freezing temperatures outside, but not one word did she utter. She didn't have to. She was an Army wife, and her husband was Special Ops. For now, and for the next several years, she would be sharing him with his other love. All she could do was to hope that she wouldn't have to share him forever. 

He appreciated it, loved her more than ever. Was grateful ever more at the moment that he chosen to break free of the party downstairs a little sooner than everyone else to take his wife upstairs to the room that was theirs, one that didn't come equipped with a five year old daughter and an infant son. He was going to have to take that memory into battle with him, whatever it would be, and he cherished the memory. He would come home with that memory foremost in his mind.

But for now: there was a job to be done.

* * *

"Thomas, this is what you have your men here for," Charlotte complained. "You gave up field work when you accepted your promotion." 

"Not in this case, Charlotte." Of that, Ryan was certain. "There's things that are moving, moving in places where they ought not to be. I need to see those things, Charlotte."

"No, Thomas. No, you do not. I'm sure that you are aware of the concept of 'plausible deniability'. If you do not observe certain items, then you cannot be held accountable for them. You can instruct your men not to discuss what they find, if necessary. After all, they are enlisted men and are not always clear on events as they pertain to the larger arena of world politics. Yes, I realize that this is not the case for your men, Thomas, but this is a convenient fiction for the world at large which has been used for many centuries. You should avail yourself of it." Charlotte patted the pillow next to her. "Come back to bed, Thomas."

He kissed her, hard. "I'll be back." He tried to offer her some consolation. "You keep reminding me of these things, Charlotte. I need to be out there this time, but I need you to keep reminding me of the larger world that'll affect how my men do their job."

* * *

The sedan slowed them down over the country road, but there was no help for it. Grey's jeep could squeeze five into it with a shoehorn, but six was out of the question and adding the weaponry and equipment would only compound the matter. 

Ryan had given them the briefest briefing he'd ever done in his entire career. "We were set up, gentlemen," he announced. "This whole shebang was indeed arranged. Somebody way high up in them rarified Washington circles wanted us positioned where we could be called upon at will. And we have just received the 'phone call' to move out." He paused, going over the details that he did have. "There's a covert operation going on at that supposedly abandoned bunker in the mountain up the street, something to do with national security, only it's not so covert any more. Somebody inside got a message out, said that they're under attack and about to be overrun. It's our job to dig 'em out."

"Who are the players, and how do we tell the good guys from the bad?" That was Mack, practical as ever.

"Good question," Ryan acknowledged. "The good guys are a squad of our guys, stuck guarding some FBI/NSA joint operation that was supposed to crack open a lead into some middle eastern terrorist organization. It sounds like they got in over their heads. Last message out was that a bunch of terrorist soldier types, armed with something a little more lethal than pea-shooters, got inside and started taking the place apart. Our boys are trying to beat 'em back, but it's not lookin' too good."

There was a quiet _boom_, echoing down from the mountain in the distance. It sounded for all the world like a cavalcade of trucks going by on an interstate highway, but not one man there was fooled.

Ryan's face went flat. "We'd best hurry," was all he said.


	8. Cold 8 Unit

A quarter mile was as far away as they dared stop. Any closer, there was the chance of being spotted, but further meant more travel time on foot and the sound of gunfire muffled by the interior of the bunker suggested that speed was of the essence. They pulled both vehicles off of the road, turning them around so that a quick run from the bunker could happen if needed, then covered them with brush so that they wouldn't be spotted easily.

Ryan buckled his armor. "This one's all yours, Jonas. The situation's on the ground."

"Yes, sir." Blane accepted the responsibility from his superior as only sensible. "We'll hold fire as long as possible, try to sort out our guys from the enemy."

"Sounds good to me, seeing as how we don't know who the enemy is," Charlie Grey quipped.

"Yes, we do, Carlito," Mack told him. "The ones shootin' at us will be the enemy."

Blane ignored the banter. It was just nerves, and getting them out of the way was equally as important. "Main entrance is here." He pointed to a spot on the maps that Brown had downloaded a few hours earlier. No one had anticipated how useful the maps would be, but not one man there was about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Mack, take scout. Find the back entrance and scope it out. Bob, you back him up. The rest of us will see what the welcome mat looks like. Everybody got their ears on?"

It was an affirmative.

"Move out."

* * *

_Gotta up the miles_, Ryan swore to himself. _Gotta get up half an hour earlier every damn morning, do a couple of extra miles of exercise before heading in to that damn desk_. Here he was, huffing and puffing behind Blane and Grey, Williams bringing up the rear with himself in the middle like some damn civvie that needed to be baby-sat. The M-16 felt like a ton of bricks in his hand, never mind the adrenalin that was lightening the load. Even the vest armor felt heavy. _Getting soft, Ryan. Getting old, Ryan?_

_Naw._

Blane held up his hand: halt.

_Damn. Not one of 'em is winded, 'ceptin' me_. Ryan strove to control his breathing, pretending that he wasn't grateful to stop the killer pace that Sgt. Blane had set.

They listened. The gunfire had slowed to the occasional shot, which meant that everyone up ahead was trying to conserve their ammunition.

Blane sent out hand signals: _Grey, to the left. Williams, to the right. Observe and report_. Blane motioned for Ryan to go silently to ground, creeping up closer so that they could see what was happening. Blane pulled out his field glasses, using the infra-red to zero in on the enemy combatants. He handed the glasses off to Ryan.

The world took on the eerie red-black look of infra-red. Two bodies glowed in the bush, the heat radiating into the cold night. One fired at the front entrance to the bunker; Ryan could see the body jerk with the recoil in time with the sharp report of the fire arm with a bright flash indicating the explosive discharge from the barrel. The pair was shooting at a single defender hiding behind a thick steel door that had been blown off its hinges. The door was solid and worthy of being cover, but wouldn't keep the attackers out once they'd eliminated the opposing force. That wouldn't take long: the lone man was clearly tiring, and running out of return fire. Without intervention, the front door would be overrun in a matter of minutes with another of America's finest being left to bleed his life away into the dirt. There was already a single body down and not moving by the steel entranceway, the heat leaching away and showing evidence that Ryan didn't want to see.

Whispers came in over their earpieces.

First, Williams: "One."

Grey: "One, only."

Blane already had his game plan. "Take them out quietly," he whispered back. "Squib when you're done. I've got two."

Enough talking aloud. Blane used his fingers next. _We need to take out those two in front. Can you handle the one on the right?_

_Let me at 'im._ Ryan hoped that he was up to the task. But he _wanted_ some physical action, something to assuage the anger inside.

_Quietly_, Blane warned, acknowledging his superior's unvoiced doubt, and moved off in the direction of the combatant on the left.

Ryan tried to be as quiet, pleased that he hadn't forgotten everything that he'd ever learned. Not a twig crunched beneath his boots. He pulled out his Bowie, reversing it so that he could use the blunt end as a club. It took longer than he liked, but he was able to approach without the man hearing a sound. One solid _thunk_, and the combatant slithered to the frozen forest floor, out cold. Ryan smiled grimly. His wits might be a little rusty, but his body hadn't forgotten everything.

Blane pulled up beside him, nodding in approval. He sent two quick squibs through the ears, got two in return, one from each of his men. He scanned one more time with the infra-reds, and nodded.

He stood up, close enough to the trees to dodge, if need be. "Soldier!"

"What?" A snarl, close to the breaking point, but not giving in.

"Help has arrived. Sgt. Jonas Blane, the 303rd Logistical," Blane called out.

"Logistical? Who sent you?" Still suspicious. Ryan didn't blame him; covert operations had a tendency to make a man paranoid, and getting shot at didn't help. But there was something about the voice, something that…

It clicked. Ryan had a better memory for details than he cared to let on to anybody. He knew that voice. "Joe Bakker?"

More suspicion from the man defending the front door of the bunker. "Who's that?"

"Joe Bakker; you were stationed at Fort Dix for a while?" Ryan persisted. "'Bout three years ago?" He peered a little more closely. "You made lieutenant that fast, son? What was it, a battlefield promotion?"

"Who's that?"

"Colonel Thomas Ryan, soldier," Ryan called out.

It worked. The gun lowered. Beside him, Ryan could feel Blane letting out his breath that he'd been holding. "Sir?"

"One of the recruits that washed out," Ryan explained to Blane. "Good man, just not Unit material. You were out of the country at the time." Leaving unsaid just where Blane was out of the country and what he was doing at the time that Bakker was washing out of Unit recruit training. Ryan stepped out from the covering trees, holding his gun out at arm's length. "Help has arrived, soldier."

"Thank God." Lt. Bakker stood down, his gun drooping. "Thank God."

* * *

Mack surveyed the back entrance to the bunker with displeasure. Six of 'em, all dead. Cold, too; blood no longer leaking onto the dirt outside the door. Two were army soldiers, and the rest were dressed in ragtag outfits that suggested that they were the terrorists that Ryan had spoken of. The two soldiers guarding the back entrance had fought valiantly, but were no match for the numbers set against them. Beside him, Bob Brown squatted to touch each of the corpses in turn, making certain that there was nothing to be done, his face bleak. 

It was time to call in. Mack touched his earpiece. "Dirt Diver to Snake Doctor."

"Go ahead, Dirt Diver."

"Over run. The bunker has been compromised. Repeat: the bunker has been compromised."

"Acknowledged, Dirt Diver. We have secured this end and plan to invest. Advise as to your plan of action."

"Snake Doctor, additional info: our people were shot in the back."

Shocked pause. "Say again, Dirt Diver."

"Snake Doctor, looks like someone from inside came up behind 'em and shot our boys in the back, which is how the bunker was compromised. They never had a chance."

Gerhardt could just imagine the stony expression on Blane's face. It was one thing to go down fighting. It was entirely another to have someone you thought that you could trust come up on your tail and shoot your brains out. Blane would want a piece of the scum that did it. Gerhardt hoped to get there first.

"Proceed with caution, Dirt Diver. Communicate only if required."

"Acknowledge your position, Snake Doctor, and your intentions. Will advance on this end. Dirt Diver out." He tossed Brown a glance. "You ready?"

Brown's automatic was in his hands. It was all the answer Gerhardt needed.

They slipped into the bunker, noting the heavy cinder block walls that could withstand a direct hit from a bunker-buster. There were elevators to take them down to the subterranean levels, but Mack ignored those. With the power down, they'd be so many death traps for anyone stupid enough to get into one. Nope; Mack and Brown's job was to rescue the people inside, preferably while removing as many of the terrorists as they possibly could during the process on a reasonably permanent basis. Maybe they'd leave one or two alive for questioning, but any more than that tended to get messy later on. Mack knew that for certain.

For the moment, his ears were Mack's most valuable resource. They told him that there was no one up ahead, not in this corridor; no breathing, no talking, nothing to indicate that they'd left a guard behind. Good; that suggested that the attackers' numbers were limited, that they had something more important in mind. Of course, it could also mean that they were simply stupid, but Mack decided not to count on that.

He moved ahead, Brown covering his six.

* * *

Lt. Bakker had picked up a souvenir from his ride: a bullet hole that had gone straight through flesh and come out somewhere on the other side. He talked while Grey tied a bandage around the entrance and exit wounds, slumping down on the chair just inside the bunker and pretending that unconsciousness was not the preferred state of being at the moment. 

"An FBI mission," Bakker said. "Ah don't know much, just that they toted in this math genius, wanted him to decipher something pretty important for the NSA." Bakker snorted, looked around helplessly. "Important, hell. World-shaking, in mah opinion." He shook his head. "Look fer the FBI guy in charge, an agent goes by the name of Don Eppes. He's a good 'un. He was tryin' to bust out my boys from where they're trapped, last Ah heard. Then the top of the mountain caved in, and Ah ain't heard anything since." He set his chin. "Ah hope the man's still alive."

"How many of the enemy?" Blane wanted to know.

"Not sure, sergeant. Mebbe twenty or so. Ah had a couple of boys at the back gate, but Ah think the bulk of 'em bastards got in that way."

"They did, lieutenant," Blane said grimly. "Couple of my men found the evidence. They're tracking them inside right now."

"Tell 'em to be careful!" Bakker said, alarmed. "Y'all gotta find that consultant! Whatever he's working on must be pretty important for all these people to go to so much trouble. The NSA assigned another man of theirs to keep track of him, not just the FBI."

"Three agencies." Ryan was reluctantly impressed. "Army, FBI, and NSA. It must be something high up, lieutenant." It also suggested why he and his had been ordered to go on that half-assed retreat. Having a division of soldiers nearby was turning out to be a good insurance package for somebody. He turned to Blane, Williams and Grey standing behind him. "Primary objective, sergeant: locate and secure that consultant. Find anything that he was working on; if they've already killed or captured him, we may need to play catch up. Secondary objective: attempt to locate and release the rest of our boys. We can use the assistance." He turned back to Bakker. "What's his name, this consultant that you're guarding? What does he look like?"

"Name's Charlie Eppes," Bakker told them. "Little guy, 'bout five eight or so. Not too old, in his thirties, maybe. Curly dark hair. Wearing jeans and sweats, shirt says something about 'It's as easy as' and then it's got a lot of calculus stuff on it that the professor swore meant one plus one equals two."

"What part of the facility is he working in?" That was more important to Blane and his men.

That Bakker knew right away. "Third level down, north end. Where the heavy duty computer banks are. Or were," he amended grimly, "before somebody tried to take down the mountain." He leaned back in his chair, unable to hold his head up any longer. "Hell of a lot of rumbling, colonel," he admitted unhappily. "Ah think a lot of them corridors is now crunched like so many tin cans in a trash compactor. Gonna be tough moving around down there."

"Any of our people still alive?" It was a fair question. Ryan didn't want to ask it, but it could have important implications for the job ahead: rescue or salvage.

"Don't know—" Bakker started to say.

"We go on the assumption that they are," Blane interrupted. "Those men wouldn't be so hot to hustle inside if they thought that their target was dead." Decision time: Blane turned to his men. "Mr. White, we need power. Find the generators and figure out how to get ventilation and communications back on line. Mr. Green, back him up." He turned to Col. Ryan. "We may need additional fire power once we get inside. Mr…" He paused, remembered that Ryan had already identified himself to the wounded lieutenant, and corrected himself. "Colonel, once we have determined the extent of the incursion, I may ask you to call for more troops to contain this incident."

"You'll have it, sergeant," Ryan replied. "You just tell me what you need, and I'll call for it, soon as communications are back on line." Left unsaid: _that's assumin' that my bosses will give it to us. Big assumption, Jonas_. "I'll see if I can raise Peterson." He glanced at his watch: just shy of four AM. Peterson was in his bed, under warm covers, next to his wife. Not gonna be easy to wake the lieutenant colonel, but at least they'd be able to call on about twenty trained soldiers from the Four Oh Ninety Six, even if they weren't supposed to have brought anything worth calling a weapon.

"Good." Blane turned back to Bakker. "Lieutenant, I'm going to ask you to hold down the fort right here. Anyone tries to come through this way, you identify them and decide if they deserve to be let out of here. Can you do that?"

It was questionable. The blood leaking out of the lieutenant's shoulder verified that, and the slumped position in the chair only added to the evidence. But the man was a soldier, and determined to do his duty. "Ah can do that."

"Good man." Blane peered inside the darkness, listened once more. Then: "move out."


	9. Cold 9 Unit

Emergency lights lit the corridors, and by 'lit' Brown was using the term in the most sarcastic fashion he could think of. The lights were spaced too widely apart to allow them to pool their resources, and the result was that both Brown and Gerhardt were tripping over rocks and debris every second step and sometimes in between.

Didn't matter. Getting the job done did, and right now getting the job done meant exploring the caved-in bunker for survivors and taking down the slime that had done the caving in. Brown listened with both ears, striving to decipher what was little bits of mountain shifting into more comfortable positions and what was the sound of living creatures moving through the darkness.

Gerhardt stopped them with an upraised hand. Brown could barely see him, sensed more than saw the man in front of him.

Gerhardt had sharper ears than any of them. He'd detected what Brown was only just now hearing: soft voices whispering up ahead.

Next question: friend or foe? Again, Gerhardt turned up with the answer. The words being softly voiced several yards from them weren't in English, not even in Spanish. Brown couldn't translate them, but the meaning got through. It was foe, and those men were looking for someone.

The pair put in another well-spent moment to decide that the voices belonged to three, only. Gerhardt kept to hand signals, instructed Brown to take down the one on the right. Gerhardt would handle the one on the left, and whoever got to the leftovers had better do it fast before they could spread the alarm.

Clockwork. A Swiss watch didn't work any more smoothly than the two Unit members. Gerhardt reversed the handle on his Bowie; a solid blow to the back of the head would be quieter than slicing into a windpipe. There was always the chance that the gurgling of blood in the throat would echo through the corridor and alert anyone up ahead. Brown followed suit and turned to subdue the third member of the enemy party only to find that Gerhardt already had the man in a headlock, arm firmly across his neck and choking the air out of him.

Just enough air to keep the man alive, and no more; certainly not enough to give a shout. They didn't need the man dead, or even unconscious; they needed intel.

Brown kept his voice down. "How many?"

The eyes were rolling up inside his head, but the answer was a choked spat of words in an unknown tongue. Brown knew exactly what the man had said, despite not knowing the language. The enemy had just done his best to insult Brown's family, his heritage, and his eventual place in the afterlife.

Brown was unimpressed. The man's words would only mean something if Brown let it, and Brown, frankly, didn't care about the man's opinion of him. "Speak English," he demanded, knowing that anyone in this sort of position would be primed by knowing the language of the land. "How many of you?" Gerhardt reinforced the request with another tug, putting on the pressure.

"I kill you!"

Gerhardt squeezed out a grunt. "Not today, friend."

"I…kill…you…!" The words were weaker, the level of oxygen lower to the brain. Yeah, the man knew English.

Brown got into the man's face, trusting Gerhardt to keep him under control. "How many?" he enunciated clearly.

The man spat, or tried to. Lack of air got in the way, and the spit dribbled down his blue lips. A moment later, he slumped in Gerhardt's arms. Gerhardt kept the submission hold for another long minute, ensuring that the man was truly unconscious and not merely shamming for an opportunity to strike out.

Brown was already assessing for additional opponents nearby. "All clear," he reported. "What'll we do with these?"

"Tie 'em up and gag 'em," was Gerhardt's reply. "I don't want 'em getting loose for more mischief." The look on Gerhardt's face suggested a more permanent solution to the problem, but the long term plans included questions, questions that corpses would be hard put to answer.

Time to touch base with the others. Gerhardt sent a squib: _can you talk?_

"Snake Doctor." They could.

"Got three trussed and ready for the barbecue pit. You?"

"Four in the same condition. Estimated total number is twenty, so at least thirteen more wandering around in here. We've located the rest of our side, but they're trapped behind six feet of steel and mountain and are going to have to wait for some hydraulics. Betty Blue and Hammerhead are looking into the air conditioning. There's still the precious package to be acquired and a couple of kissing cousins."

"No sign of 'em on this end. We'll keep hunting. Dirt Diver out."

* * *

Ryan tapped Blane on the shoulder, motioning for silence. Blane froze, his finger having tapped off his short-wave. Finger talk: _more up ahead_.

More listening: _they're speaking English_.

Blane listened himself, straining to make out the words. English, yes, and more importantly: American English, not an English taught by schoolteachers in another country. Yes, moles would come to this country and learn how to fit in, but that clarity of accent could only have grown up in the L.A. Basin. He nodded to his colonel, motioning for the superior officer to stay behind him until Blane could assess the situation more fully.

"Wake up, David. Nap time's over." Worried. Even from this far away, Blane could hear the speaker looking around, trying to see through the gloom for their attackers. Clearly one of the good guys. One of the 'kissing cousins' that he'd mentioned not two minutes previously. Hopefully it would be the precious package, but odds were that it was a couple of FBI types, trying to figure what the hell had just gone down.

"Coffee." It was more of a moan than a request, but the point got across. Blane frowned; was the man injured? Delirious? Not out of the realm of possibility.

Blane stood up, looming in the shadows, still sideways in case the kissing cousin didn't take kindly to the kissing. "You. Up ahead. State your name."

Even in the dark Blane could see the man whip around into a crouch, handgun at the ready.

"Who's that?"

Yeah, L.A. for sure. Kissing cousin to a Valley girl, but there was nothing romantic about this situation. Blane allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk upward. "Master Sergeant Jonas Blane, 303rd." Beat. "We heard the rumbling, and came to see how many beer kegs you were rolling down the mountainside."

By the look of him, the man had come to the similar conclusion that Jonas's own speech had grown up within the forty eight contiguous states, and that led Jonas to reaffirm his own conclusion that the man was either the FBI man that Bakker had spoken of or his NSA counterpart. The 'precious package' was less likely to be capable of such small nuances, and even less apt to be able to whip around and draw a bead on the center of Jonas's vest as this man had done.

The man straightened, his gun not on point any longer but still capable of being fired with less than a moment's notice. "Special Agent Don Eppes, FBI. How did you find us?" Incredulous, as if unable to believe the luck.

Ryan pushed forward. "Luck had nothing to do with it, Special Agent Eppes." He stuck out his hand, keeping his automatic in the other. "Colonel Tom Ryan, the 303rd Logistical." He grinned, as much to put the other man at ease as anything else. "Let's just say a little owl gave a hoot a couple of hours ago, and leave at that, shall we?" He got down to business. "Fill us in. I understand we've got a few houseflies floating around in this bowl of soup?"

Eppes grimaced, shaking the proffered hand. "You could say that. Understand, colonel, that this is a high level national security operation. I'm not sure that I can tell you very much, except that I've got a consultant located somewhere on the third level that we had better dig out pronto. Chances are that he's sitting on some very sensitive information. And that there's an NSA mole named Foster, and another one slipped in from the army named Schmidt."

"Doesn't surprise me to hear that, Eppes," Ryan said. "My men and I were ordered into the vicinity with a very strange set of orders that now makes a lot more sense. Somebody wanted us nearby in case you got yourselves into a mess that was more than the FBI was prepared to handle."

Eppes developed a steel chin. "And who might have issued those orders, colonel? Mind you, this is national security. I have a need to know."

"I'm sure you do, Agent Eppes, but I don't have an answer to give you. Oh, I've got chain of command, but that's not going to take you anywhere. The real orders came from someone whose name won't show up." Ryan cocked his head. "You got any thoughts?"

"Wish I did, colonel. Wish I—" the FBI agent broke off. "I do."

"Yeah? Care to share?"

"My brother," Eppes said. "The consultant. Find him, and we'll find the answer."

"The consultant's your brother?"

"Yeah." Heavy sigh. "Trust me on this, colonel. Having a math genius for a brother isn't all it's cracked up to be."

Ryan nodded slowly. "Sounds like it has a good chance of getting you killed, Special Agent Eppes."

"Yeah." Glum. "Let's see if we can avoid that part."

* * *

Mack held up his hand: _stop_. Brown halted on a dime and gave back change, and heard the same noise a moment later: labored breathing. There was someone up ahead, someone who didn't sound very healthy. Question was: friend or foe?

There was a lot of rubble, with the walls caved in on both side and threatening to hurl a few more pebbles toward anyone foolish enough to venture forth. The terrain looked eerie in the monochrome of the infra-red night goggles, and Brown needed to pick up his feet in order to avoid tripping over the chunks of cinder blocks that used to be walls and now were so much debris. Here and there the wall glowed in the light, evidence of the explosion that only just now was giving up the remnants of its heat to the surrounding environment. _Must have been some damn hefty piece of fireworks_.

Yes, there was a glowing body up ahead, a body alive with heat that was on the ground, pinned by several of those cinder chunks looking cold and squat against flesh. The heavy breathing was caused by the body attempting to extricate himself from the pile of cinder blocks. Brown winced; that had to hurt something fierce. And, by the sound of the labored breathing punctuated by the occasional groan and curse, the crunched body underneath the blocks felt the same way.

Mack aimed his rifle at the man's head. At this distance, missing was an impossibility for the sniper, and Brown's own gun was right behind.

Mack started the pleasantries. "Identify yourself," he barked.

The body stopped struggling. "Who's that?" he called back. An arm snaked out, and Brown could see the slender outline of a handgun in the pinned man's hand. The aim was wavering, but the intent was not.

"I said, identify yourself," Mack demanded.

"Special Agent Colby Granger, FBI," the man replied. Brown could hear the pain in the man's voice. "Who're you?"

"303rd Logistical," Mack said, lowering his gun, refusing to give a name. "What's your status?"

"Army?"

"That's what I said, friend. What's your status?"

"Thank God." The fight seemed to go out of the man on the floor. "Listen, you have to get through this rubble over here. On the other side is another man, my assignment. We're here on a national security matter, and there's a bunch of terrorist types outside—"

"We've seen them," Brown interrupted. "Actually, we've seen their work. They got through the back door."

"Crap." The man looked around helplessly, caught underneath the blocks. "Crap," he repeated. He summoned his strength. "Don't worry about me; I'm not going anywhere. Just get to that man. It's national security, and it's big, dude. The guy's name is Charlie Eppes; a short guy with curly dark hair, probably has a laptop glued to his belt buckle. You gotta get to him before those terrorists do. Or before the NSA dude does."

"NSA?" That didn't sound right. "The NSA is one of us."

"Not this one. Charlie thinks he's a mole, or that someone's feeding the NSA bad intel. Don't trust him. Not yet, anyway. You gotta find Charlie," Granger insisted wildly.

"Slow down, Granger," Mack told him. "You're not going anywhere, not for a bit. You got any other friends around here?"

"There's a squad of privates and corporals, stuck in a conference room 'bout two levels over. Somebody locked 'em in, and they can't get out," Granger reported. "I got two other FBI agents on site, Eppes and Sinclair. They were far away from where the bomb went off—"

"Bomb?" That did not please Mack to hear.

"Yeah. I saw it, tried to get Charlie away before it went off—"

"Didn't do too badly." Brown tossed another chunk of cinder block away. Some of Granger's leg was exposed, and what Brown could see of it didn't look like Granger would be entering the New York City marathon any time soon. "Wait a minute—you said Eppes? I thought that was the name of your consultant. He's an FBI agent? Or NSA?"

Granger groaned when another cinder block was pulled off, letting blood back into his crushed leg. "Charlie Eppes," he gasped, trying to get the words out. "The consultant. Math dude. Don Eppes is the FBI agent. His brother."

"Right." Mack kept working, and Brown could hear the word that Mack didn't say: _nepotism_.

Granger heard the unspoken word, too. "Not like that, guy. Charlie's the real deal, and Don's earned his reputation—oww! Watch it, guy!"

"Sorry." Mack wasn't. Getting this man out from the rubble was more important. "What about the terrorists?"

"Don't know," Granger gasped. Even in the infra-red light, Brown could see him going under. "Don and Lt. Bakker were watching for 'em, things were going south…" His voice trailed off. "Gotta get to Charlie…dude…"

Brown took a moment to peel Granger's eyelids back. "He's out."

"Good," Mack grunted. He looked at the wall of rubble in front of him. "You think we can get through that?"

"I'm thinking that calling Snake Doctor is a good idea."

"From your mouth to God's ears," Mack murmured, pulling out his radio. He sent a squib.

The team leader was in a secure location to answer. "Snake Doctor here. What's your status, Dirt Diver?"

"We have one of our kissing cousins, Snake Doctor, but he's stubbed his toe. We do not have the precious package, but we have better intel on his whereabouts."

"Can you acquire the package, Dirt Diver?"

"That's a negative, Snake Doctor. We do not have eyes on the package. We anticipate a better handle on the situation in fifteen."

"Understood, Dirt Diver. Advise that we also have found some of our kissing cousins, in reasonably good condition." Brown could hear the twinkle in Blane's voice. "_Reasonably _good condition." Blane went on. "Consider the situation unchanged from previous reports. Our friends from back home have been roused from their beauty sleep, and will be here within a few hours."

"That's affirmative, Snake Doctor." Gerhardt tried hard to keep the sarcasm from his tones. Blane had just told him that Ryan had gotten through to Petersen who could be counted on to send assistance as soon as he determined which of his people could be woken up from a drunken stupor. Wonderful. Couldn't really blame 'em, this was supposed to be R & R, but under the circumstances, it would have been nice to have a little back up, even if it did come without weaponry. "We will work on the package. Dirt Diver out." He clicked off his radio, and turned to Brown with a sigh. "Don't suppose you've seen a pick and shovel around here?"


	10. Cold 10 Unit

The nice thing about infra-red goggles was that it allowed a man to see in the dark, which gave him a distinct advantage over his enemy. The problem arose when the enemy had the same advantage.

Grey picked out the irregular outline around the man's head in an instant. He held up his hand to stop Williams behind him. Two fingers, motioning: Williams to move to the left, Grey would handle the right.

Only one man. Grey paused for several long moments to make certain of that. What was the man doing?

The pair had made their way to the power room at Blane's behest. The bunker, all ruined miles of it, needed power to supply the ventilation. Heat also would be nice, but without air circulation the trapped inhabitants of this mountain would slowly suffocate before anyone could dig them out which meant that Grey had been elected to see what he could do to get power back on line, and Williams to make sure that he got there without being unduly delayed by anyone.

That felt good, having his buddy Williams at his back. There were a bunch of terrorists types wandering around, armed with automatics and bad attitudes, and trying to concentrate on a power grid and shoot back at the intruders wasn't something that Charlie Grey looked forward to. He could trust Hector Williams to look out for him.

It looked like someone had gotten to the power grid first, and he was still there. Big dude, over six foot, dark hair if Grey could trust what the night goggles were telling him. The bulge in the back pocket was the man's handgun, and both of the hands were poking and prodding at the circuits. Electricity jumped across two wires, and the man cursed and swore, jumping back in surprise.

Good. Grey and Williams remained undetected. The man in front of them was completely engrossed in his work. It also meant that this man was likely one of the friendlies, since the enemy would be counting on continued darkness to cover their actions. An enemy wouldn't want the power to be restored. An enemy would simply toss a bomb into the works and skedaddle before he himself could get caught in the fallout, unless he was of the martyring persuasion and was looking forward to forty two virgins in the afterlife.

Still, no point in taking chances. On three: Grey held up his fingers. Three. Two. One.

"Don't move, friend," he snapped out, automatic in place.

The man froze. His back went rigid.

"Keep your hands where I can see 'em," Grey instructed. He stepped forward, careful not to get in Hector's line of fire, and slipped the man's own handgun out of his shoulder holster. Grey kept his guard up, but started to relax. Not too many terrorists used shoulder holsters, not in his experience. He tucked the gun into his belt to keep it out of the way. "Name?"

"Who am I talking to?"

"A man with a gun aimed at your spine, guy, with a friend with another gun in case I miss," Grey told him pleasantly.

"Really?" Clearly considering a fast move. Wondering if his leg was being pulled, that there was only one man behind him.

"Yes, really," Hector Williams slipped in, making it obvious that the man was outnumbered.

The man's shoulder's slumped. "In that case, I'm Steven Foster." Deep breath. "NSA."

"You got some ID?"

"In my breast pocket. Shall I—?"

"Turn around slowly," Grey instructed. He grinned, even though it would be difficult to see with night goggles. "I'll do the honors."

It was. The man had been accurate, or else had a damn good forger on his payroll. Grey nodded, and Williams lowered his own weapon. "Grey and Williams, U.S. Army. Mind telling me what's been going on?"

Foster frowned. "Hell in a handbasket, gentlemen. This is a top secret mission, so I can't give you details. My objective at this point is to get enough power to get a message out. My superiors need to know what's happened."

"A message has already gone out," Grey told him.

"Going to the NSA?"

"I don't know," Grey had to admit. "My people know about it, which is why we're here."

"Then we need to get out of here." Foster came to a decision. "This is national security. A band of terrorists have infiltrated this bunker and taken out one of our consultants. He's dead, and the information that he was trying to decipher is lost. My people need to know this as soon as possible." He straightened himself. "I'm commandeering your squad to get me out of this bunker as quickly and as safely as possible, so that I can communicate with my people back in Washington. Let's go, men."

"Hold on." Grey was unimpressed. "I'll check in—"

"There's no time for that!" Foster insisted. "Sergeant, there are terrorists roaming this bunker as we speak, and they are looking for me! We need to leave now!" He held out his hand. "Give me back my gun."

"Hold on." Grey pulled out his radio. "I'm checking in." He sent the squib, and got an answer back right away.

"Snake Doctor. What's your situation, Betty Blue?"

"Found a kissing cousin, Snake Doctor. He says that the package has been damaged beyond recovery and is requesting an escort to go home to mama."

"What? Say again, Betty Blue."

"The package has been damaged beyond recovery, Snake Doctor. Our kissing cousin confirms, and wants to tell mama ASAP."

Pause. Both Grey and Williams could see Blane in their minds' eye exchanging glances with Colonel Ryan, trying to decide what to do. Foster glowered at them, waiting for the response. Then: "Negative, Betty Blue. Inform your cousin that the telegram has been sent. Maintain current objective."

"Roger that, Snake Doctor. Maintaining current objective. Betty Blue out." Grey turned back to Foster. "Sorry, guy. We're to stay right here and restore power to this heap of dirt."

Fury blazed in Foster's eyes, quickly damped down by ironclad control. "Unacceptable. This is national security." He tried another tack. "We have to get out before the terrorists find us."

Williams shook his head. "We've got a bunch of buddies who are trapped on another level," he told Foster, "and they're going to suffocate if we don't get the power back on. Your message has already gone out, and will make it to your people real soon. That's been taken care of. Now it's time to pull our guys out of the fire before your terrorists get to them."

Foster stared at first one, then the other. He allowed his shoulders to slump ever so slightly. "All right." He gestured to the power grid. "I count at least fifteen different breaks. Where do you want to start?"

* * *

Special Agent Eppes grabbed the edge of the table. It tilted crazily under his white-knuckled grasp. Even his subordinate, Sinclair, still trying to shake off whatever concussion or drugs he's been through, lifted his head in horror.

"Did he—?" Eppes' voice came faintly.

Ryan was direct. "I'm sorry, son." Ryan wasn't much older than the FBI agent himself, but that didn't matter. Ryan knew what it was like to lose a man; had lost far too many. The men that Ryan lost may not have been biological brothers, but each and every one was as close as a brother for all of that. Ryan could respect what the other man was going through.

He moved in, took Don's arm firmly. "There's nothin' you can do for him sittin' here, Eppes. Move out. Make his life worth somethin'. Make the bastards who killed him pay."

He watched the FBI man take hold of himself, take another grip on his handgun. He could read the thoughts going through the man's mind: Eppes still had his gun, and there were still a boatload of murdering terrorists who had attacked his brother, his team, and his country. He watched Eppes harden his soul, saw the other agent Sinclair put steel into his own eye along with the gun in his hand.

Ryan nodded with grim approbation. "Move out," was all he said.

Blane took point.


	11. Cold 11 Unit

Mack, on point, held up his hand. Brown stopped, and the FBI agent whose arm he had wrapped around his neck to drag him along, stopped with him. The agent had little choice. Forward movement on his own was a current impossibility. Brown put his lips to the agent's ear. "Shh."

The FBI man didn't need a second invitation. He didn't even need the first. Getting lowered to the cold concrete floor was enough for the moment. The man was lucky to be hanging onto consciousness by a thread. The agent dragged his handgun out of its holster, clearly amazed that he still had it. Brown wasn't; he'd stuffed the pea-shooter back into its spot against a possibility like this one. Brown wasn't one to throw away an advantage.

Brown bent over. "Stay down," he whispered, as quietly as he could, directly into Colby's ear. He let his eyes do the rest of the talking: _you gonna be able to handle that gun?_

The FBI man nodded grimly. _If I have to_.

Quick return smile, fierce and determined, to a kindred spirit. _Let's make sure that you don't have to_.

Mack was calling the shots. There were three of the enemy up ahead; Brown could hear them speaking quietly in something other than English. It was hard to identify the language at this distance but it sounded like one that had originated in the Middle East. One thing was obvious: those three were not on Brown's side.

Mack was ready, and so was Brown. They had trained for this, knew exactly what to do. Finger talk sufficed: _three, two, one._

Blam.

Fast and deadly. In the blink of an eye the three enemy combatants were down and no longer moving.

End of threat.

Both Gerhardt and Brown listened for several more long moments, making certain that the noise wasn't bringing anyone else running to see what the commotion was. There wasn't.

Gerhardt tapped his radio, sending three quick squibs. _Three more of the enemy, no longer a problem._

Return squib: _roger that, Dirt Diver_.

* * *

Surprisingly, the power grid was in relatively good shape. There was still power coming in from the independent generators, and only a few dozen circuit breakers to be replaced in order to restore power to where ever the wires were intact. Charlie Grey worked swiftly, testing the various circuits, cursing the faded diagrams that should have let him know which were the all important lines to the ventilation units. Without those, he knew, the men trapped in the room with the currently silent wide screen TV would slowly suffocate while being bored to death before heavy equipment could be trucked in to get them out. Foster worked beside him, switching one power line to another, trying to get the electricity to flow where it was most needed.

Hector Williams kept his back to them, scanning the corridors for oncoming traffic. This was the point where the night goggles were most useful. It would almost impossible for anyone to sneak up on them. The heat radiating from the bodies would precede them and seep around the corner to notify Hector that company was coming to call. Plenty of ammo, plenty of room; there wasn't much more he could ask for.

He listened to the radio communication flying back and forth. There were the squibs between Snake Doctor and Dirt Diver. Good: Hector could count with the best of them, and sixteen down meant only about four more opponents ranged against them, assuming that they had a reasonably accurate head count. Still too many, and still too much room for error in case there were more than twenty enemy combatants, but slowly they were whittling down the odds. For an operation on the fly with minimal equipment, this one was going nicely.

Too nicely. That kind of thinking led to errors, and Hector Williams was opposed to making errors. They led to dead soldiers, and Hector had long ago decided to avoid that possibility for as long as he could. He scanned again, waiting for his turn to check in with his team leader. "Hammerhead."

Blane's deep voice echoed quietly in the empty corridor. "Snake Doctor here. I'm counting a total of sixteen pins down. Anything further?"

"Betty Blue is still doing his needlepoint along with the kissing cousin. Says it shouldn't be too much longer," Williams reported. "Everything's quiet in this neck of the woods, Snake Doctor."

Another request. "Hammerhead, need to know the location of the precious package."

"Understood, Snake Doctor." Williams turned to Foster. "My people are asking: where's the body of your consultant?"

Foster turned from his tasking, thinking. "I found him just outside his work area, already dead. Level Three, Corridor D. You can tell them that."

Williams nodded, and turned back to his radio. "The package was last seen on Level Green, Corridor Gamma."

"That's a roger, Hammerhead." Beat. "Continue with previously established objective, then meet with us on Level Green, Corridor Gamma for package retrieval. I will inform Dirt Diver and Cool Breeze."

"Roger that, Snake Doctor. Level Green, Corridor Gamma." Williams tossed a glance over his shoulder at Charlie Grey. "You hear that, Betty Blue? We've got a date, as soon as you get your act together. You want to hurry it up?"

"You want to help?" Grey grunted. "Whoever designed this rat's nest of wires lived back in the days of the dinosaurs. I haven't seen circuits like this since the basements of the tenements in—" he broke off, in deference to the outsider among them.

Foster didn't take offense. "No worse than D.C.," he offered. "Used to live in some of 'em, back before I could afford something nicer. I remember this one rat, had a stumpy tail with a brown patch on its back, used to try to steal the cheese that I used for making quiche."

"Quiche? Really? You made quiche?"

"What can I say? 'Real men do eat quiche.' That rat could open the fridge better than I could. Spent more time in my apartment, too," Foster added wistfully. "Ow," he yelped, jerking back his fingers when a circuit over-loaded.

Grey spared him a glance. "Watch it. Don't try to hard wires those together. You'll blow the whole grid."

"Sorry."

"Sorry don't cut it, man," Grey informed him. "We don't have room for mistakes. It's getting stuffy in the room where our boys are."

Williams' radio came back on. "Snake Doctor to Hammerhead."

Hector tapped the button. "Hammerhead here. Go ahead."

"Hammerhead, we have a query from a Man in Black." That was a lie. Both Williams and Grey knew damn well that there was no communications with the outside world from this concrete bunker underneath several miles of dirt unless someone stepped outside with a cell phone or was able to get the communications panel to working. Since the comm. panel needed power which was currently unavailable and there simply wasn't enough personnel to step outside for a smoke and a phone call, Williams made the easy deduction that Blane didn't want Foster to know what they were talking about. Damn; just when this mission looked like it was going to come together.

"Go ahead, Snake Doctor."

"Man in Black needs to know which kissing cousins were with the precious package. Could be important."

"Roger that, Snake Doctor." Williams used one last second to make sure that the corridor leading away from them was clear, then focused on their guest. "Foster, anybody with the consultant when you found him?"

"Yeah. One of the FBI guys, the one named Granger."

"You positive?"

"I've been working with them for the past two days. Yeah, it was him." Foster frowned. "It's going to be a closed casket ceremony, poor bastard. The pipes from above made a mess of his face."

Williams turned back to his radio. "Snake Doctor, Hammerhead here. Response to query: one cousin only, foxtrot, sam, alpha. Repeat: one cousin only, foxtrot, sam, alpha—"

_Blam!_

Electricity sparked through the air. Grey yelped, and fell back, stunned.

Foster had been expecting it. He leaped at Williams from behind, took the man down with a wrench-laden blow to the back of his head.

Williams caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He dodged; not in time to escape but quick enough to take the blow on his shoulder instead of his head. He rolled with it, diffusing the strike.

Grey was down. Foster had cross-circuited the power through the wrong wire and had blown the Unit member across the room with the force of the electrical explosion.

No time for that. It was one on one, man against man. Soldier against traitor. There was no doubt of that now, not for Hector Williams. There was only one reason that Foster would have attacked.

Had Williams been a mere army sergeant, it would have been over in seconds. Foster had trained with some of the top hand to hand fighters in the world, was an expert in several forms of martial arts.

Unfortunately for Foster, so had Williams, and Hector Williams had one more advantage: he'd needed those skills to stay alive. There was a difference between the dojo and real life. This was real life.

Foster aimed straight for Williams' head. Williams blocked, the force rattling his arm, and tried to twist Foster's arm into a lock. Didn't work; Foster slipped out and went for a sweep. Williams jumped over and lashed out with a long leg, connecting just hard enough to rattle Foster's cage.

Foster had the physical advantage: longer arms and a heavier build. But Williams had the edge in ferocity, and seeing his team mate blinking dazedly on the floor didn't blunt that edge. The next blow he landed drew blood.

Foster wiped the blood off his lip with the back of his hand, panting, watching Williams' every move. He had to end this soon; he needed to escape, and for that he needed something more. He grabbed it—a heavy metal bar. A club.

Not good. That extended Foster's reach. Williams grew grim; if he didn't finish Foster soon, Foster would finish him. Williams could do this. It wouldn't be pretty, but there was no one around to be dazzled. He pulled his knife, all six inches of gleaming steel, the metal glinting in the red of the emergency lighting. The Fairbairn grip: good for either an underhand plunge into a deserving gut or a quick throw straight through the ribs.

Foster had had enough. All he needed now was an opportunity to get away. He flung the bar at Williams. When Williams ducked, Foster skittered down the hallway.

No longer close quarters. Williams drew his automatic, took aim—and lowered it. Foster had dodged around a corner. Gone.

A lesser man would have cursed. Hector Williams, even though chagrinned, had no need. He still had a job to do. He turned to Grey. "You okay?"

Grey shook his head, trying to rattle his brains back into place. "I was expecting something to happen, but not that. Fooled me good. You?"

Hector Williams chuckled. "You don't want to see the bruise that's going to come up on my shoulder."

Grey accepted the proffered hand to haul himself back upright, stood there for a moment to collect his wits. "Top isn't gonna like this. We should have nabbed that guy."

"Top wouldn't like it if you got electrocuted, either. Waste of the taxpayer's money. Be satisfied that your ticker is still ticking."

"Yeah, there is that," Grey told him with a sigh. He turned back to the power grid. "Call it in, Hector."

* * *

"'Foxtrot, sam, alpha'?" Special Agent Eppes repeated anxiously. "What does that mean? What happened?"

Ryan took the lead on that question. Sgt. Blane tapped the radio, concerned with the broken communication that did not sound as though it had been deliberate on the part of his men. Ryan, instead, answered the FBI agent's question with a question. "One of your men's last name start with an E or a G?"

Special Agent Eppes didn't understand the purpose behind the question, but he knew the answer. "I've only got two agents here besides me: Sinclair here and a man named Colby Granger. With a G."

Ryan nodded. It fit. "Little bit of misdirection, Special Agent Eppes. Hammerhead was letting us know that the man down alongside of your consultant, according to the kissing cousin with Hammerhead and Betty Blue, was Granger."

Which would have been only reasonable, since Colby had been assigned to keep Charlie intact. But then the radio link went dead. Which suggested that the person with Ryan's people was either Foster or Schmidt, the only people free to wander around the bunker, and both of whom were motivated to send out disinformation as much as possible. Which meant…

"That's right, Special Agent Eppes." Ryan was demonstrating his skill as a mind reader. "I suspect that my boys have their hands full right about now."

Eppes agreed. "They're either with Foster or Schmidt, who has just discovered that his cover has been blown."

The radio interrupted whatever else he had to say. Blane was on it in a flash. "Go ahead, Hammerhead."

"Snake Doctor, be advised that the kissing cousin's kiss is straight from Love Potion Number 9 and he has gone to spread his joy elsewhere."

"That's a roger, Hammerhead. Status?"

"Betty Blue says another ten minutes."

"Ten minutes it is, Hammerhead. Rendezvous at previously designated point after that. Snake Doctor out." Blane clicked off the radio link, radiating satisfaction. He turned to Eppes with a tight smile. "I suspect, Special Agent Eppes, that reports of your brother's death were greatly exaggerated."


	12. Cold 12 Unit

It was slow going, but not one of them considered stopping. Bob Brown had designated himself as the FBI man's crutch and was helping him to hobble along, even pulling him through a particularly tight tunnel that was all that was left of a corridor once the debris had finished filling it in.

They came to an intersection. Gerhardt held up his hand for quiet, listening intently to be certain that there wasn't about to be any unpleasant surprises. Both ways looked clear, and equally as inviting. This was closer to Ground Zero for the bomb, and the interior showed it with more debris shaken loose from the ceiling and more rubble to stumble over. Neither way showed anything promising. He turned to Granger. "You got any suggestions?"

Brown could see the thoughts moving inside the FBI agent's head. He recognized the type: an ex-Ranger, and a damn good one. Probably learned his skills in Iraq, or Afghanistan. Carrying a map of his surroundings in his head was one of the first things that a Ranger ever learned, and it either became second nature or the Ranger became a statistic on somebody's list of fallen heroes. The FBI agent proved why he wasn't a statistic. "Left heads toward the main entrance, toward the south face of the mountain. Right one heads toward the conference rooms, where the bomb went off. We're one level up."

Gerhardt accepted the information. "We still have to find your assignment. Got any suggestions?"

"Anything that doesn't involve digging through this mountain?" Brown added wryly.

Granger tried to think. "I pulled him along, out of the work room where the computer banks were. Those should be just below us, maybe off to the left. The bomb was further on, and we had to retrace our steps to try to get away."

It was time to use some additional techniques for additional intel. Brown went for the optimum distance between them, close enough for comfort yet not getting into the agent's personal space and crowding him. "Try to remember exactly what happened," Brown urged. "Think it through; take it from the top. You got the call from your commander."

"Yeah. No," Granger said, frowning. "I called Don. He didn't call me."

"Okay, you called him. Why?" _Don't get excited. Don't push him. Let it come_.

Brown could see the agent wrestling with his thoughts, trying to keep himself under control. "I called Don. Things were getting hinky down here. Charlie was working—no, he wasn't." Brown didn't move; this was it. A Ranger's memory was zeroing in on his assignment. Granger pushed ahead. "No, Charlie waited until Foster left the room, then he told me that the list that Foster gave him was a phony. I called Don, and that's when Don told me to grab Charlie and skedaddle."

"You left the work room." Brown wasn't telling the FBI agent anything new, just moving Granger's thoughts along.

"Right. We went one way, I was thinking that it was the fastest way toward the nearest exit. Then I saw something that looked like a bomb, and it really _was_ a bomb." The map inside the man's head kicked in with a vengeance. "That was further down toward the left. I pulled Charlie away, and we started running down the hall toward the right, headed in the other direction." His face fell. "That's when the world caved in on us."

"Okay." Brown wasn't finished with him. "Slow down. I want you to think about what happened when the bomb went off. You heard a loud boom," he encouraged. "What next?"

"The lights went out." Granger tried to cooperate. "The bomb was only the first noise. Then the whole damn mountain started rumbling. I remember wondering if there were any nukes left in this place, that maybe we were gonna all turn into a mushroom cloud. Pretty crazy, what you think of at a time like that."

"There was a rumbling." Brown brought Granger back to the main objective. "What next?"

"Then the ceiling fell down on top of us. It felt like an earthquake." Granger tried hard to remember everything exactly. "I had hold of Charlie by the arm, but the ceiling caved in and I remember him getting pulled away from me. Chunks of cinder blocks fell on top of us. I heard him yell—I think one of the blocks trashed him—and then there was a whole wave of dirt that crashed down between us." Granger grimaced. "I'm not remembering a whole heck of a lot more. I think I blacked out somewhere in there. When I came to, it was with you guys hauling my ass out from underneath the mountain."

Gerhardt squatted down beside him. "This is important, dude. We've got to find your package. Exactly where were you when you lost track of him? Where are we in relation to where you last saw him?"

Brown could see the FBI agent bristle at the thought of 'losing' his assignment. Yeah, Brown himself would feel the same way, and be just as wrong. Granger had nothing to be ashamed of. He'd done a full day's work just getting this far.

With an effort, Granger dragged himself back to the present, seeing the mental map in his mind's eye. "The corridor where I lost him is right below us. We were approximately fifteen feet closer to the bomb site than here, and down one level. We're close."

"Good." Gerhardt stood up, casting very little in the way of a shadow in the eerie red emergency lighting. He came to a decision. "Cool Breeze, let's see if we can find a way downstairs," he told Brown, then turned to Granger. "Listen for anything that sounds like we should know about it."

"Like—?"

"Oh, terrorists, bombs, or consultants. That sort of thing." As if any of them didn't know what he was talking about.

* * *

Blane, first in line, held up his hand. The hallway was narrow, made so by the debris lining the edges, all four of them from floor to ceiling. There were already rips in his pants and one over his shoulder from sliding through a point that someone of his bulk shouldn't have been able to get through, rips that he doubted that Mollie would appreciate trying to repair even if he were to ask her. This was not, he was certain, what his wife had in mind when she agreed to this 'mission'. His sharp ears had caught what the others hadn't, something that he had been waiting for. His white teeth gleamed in the dim red emergency lighting. "Hear that?"

"What?"

He enlightened them with a satisfied nod. "The generators are now back on line. That, gentlemen, is the sound of progress as well as the welcome noise of the ventilators bringing fresh air into this mountain. Betty Blue, ably assisted by Hammerhead, have completed their preliminary objective."

"Good," was Sinclair's observation. "At least something is going right."

Col. Ryan's voice had more humor in it than anyone ought to in this sort of situation. "Oh, I think you'll find that a number of things will improve dramatically, Special Agent Sinclair. At least, I certainly hope so and will continue my efforts on your behalf."

"Much appreciated," Eppes said grimly. Then—wait a minute. He held up his own hand. He'd heard something else, something _not_ generator powered.

The other three froze.

_Crouch. Listen. Breathe through an open mouth, so that the merest whisper of air wouldn't interfere with what was trying to gently tap an ear drum_. That noise up ahead could be from either a very scared mathematician or from a determined bunch of terrorists, and Blane had no way of knowing which it was.

In deference to the non-army personnel, Blane's hand signals were clearer than any that had gone before: _you, on the right. You there, on the left_. Sgt. Blane gave Eppes the honor of proceeding. _So that there's less chance of shooting my brother_, Eppes acknowledged, and was rewarded by a confirming nod from Sgt. Blane.

The FBI agent eased himself forward. The noise repeated itself, and Eppes wiggled his fingers at the others, trying to communicate as best as he could. It was from more than one corridor away, the light sequestered by three corners and two piles of tumbled down cinder blocks. To get to that point, they'd need to crawl on their bellies through a hall now less than two feet high.

Needed to be done. Now that he was a bit closer, Blane could hear the noises separate themselves into words, words that almost but not quite had meaning. Clearly it was a language that had originated in the Middle East. Linguistic classification could be left to the interrogators who would doubtless be descending as soon as they got wind of this.

No time. They needed to get closer, no matter what. There were more of the enemy up ahead, people who needed to be taken down before they could do more damage. In front, Eppes wiggled his fingers at the others, hoping that he was communicating enough information, and started sliding forward, gun in hand and trying not to disturb any of the pebbles that could cascade to the floor like carillon bells and warn the enemy soldiers that America was about to retake their property.

Blane saw Eppes freeze, heard words in a language that he'd grown up speaking from the moment he'd said his first words to his mother as an infant.

"You won't get away with this."

Clear English, being spoken with a jaw that was wobbling a bit too much after being damaged. A voice accustomed to speaking English and communicating concepts far beyond that of mortal man. It appeared that Sgt. Blane and Col. Ryan, along with the two FBI agents, had found the package, and the package was currently being unwrapped by the enemy, layer by layer.

Damn.


	13. Cold 13 Unit

Gerhardt eased himself forward, Brown almost but not quite inhaling his sweat. Didn't bother Gerhardt; he knew that Brown's attention was focused on the emptiness behind them so that Gerhardt himself could concentrate on what lay up ahead.

He could only see part of the scene, and what he could see he didn't like. In fairness, Gerhardt suspected that what he couldn't see he'd like even less. Options: not many, and none of which had a high probability of success. There was more than half a dozen of the enemy up ahead, and they had a hostage, and they had a lot of guns. Those terrorists had the advantage.

Time to talk about Plan B. Gerhardt backed them both up to a safe distance and sent a squib.

The answer came back fast and in a whisper. "Snake Doctor here. Eyes on the package."

_Damn_ good news. Blane and his followers were on the other side of the tunnel, watching the same slice of life unfold. "Ditto." Now for the bad news. "Condition Violet." Meaning that there were at least seven people in that room up ahead who were in serious need of a change in their cardiac status. An unhappy grunt followed by a yelp from that direction confirmed that concept; someone was being systematically beaten in an attempt to drag out information.

It would be dicey. Gerhardt and Brown had trained for these situations until they could do it in their sleep but seven was a big number and Gerhardt could only count on himself, Brown, and Blane on the other side. Col. Ryan was good but he hadn't done this in real time in years, and that took enough of an edge off that Gerhardt sure as hell didn't want to trust. Blane had FBI guys with him, but they weren't part of the trained group, so inviting the Feds to this party would be a great way to screw it up. Three against seven? They'd be lucky not to take themselves home in body bags, let alone the hostage.

Had to be done. Sarcasm: damn fine time to be a soldier. Gerhardt gave one more whisper. "On your mark, Snake Doctor." And motioned to Brown to ease up along side for a better attack position.

"Dirt Diver, hold your position."

What? Was Blane out of his mind? The hostage would be so much dead meat if they didn't hustle their asses. Mack exchanged glances with Brown. Their team leader had spoken. Mack shrugged. If Blane wanted them to enjoy another couple of minutes of life before walking into a good chance of getting heads blown off of their shoulders, he wouldn't argue.

They would wait.

* * *

Blane swiftly assessed the situation. One hostage, seven or possibly more aligned against them. The hostage, the package, was being beaten to a pulp in an effort to drag intelligence out of him, and Blane suspected that the dragging would eventually be successful, sooner rather than later. Untenable; whatever the plan, it would have to be activated swiftly. On the positive aspect, Blane had Gerhardt and Brown on the other side of the target area, both good men and well-trained for this type of work. Any more? He stared at his colonel. 

Ryan's face showed his internal struggle. Blane could easily read what he wanted on that craggy face, the fierce desire for the colonel to say, "count me in, Jonas." But he could also see the doubt dancing behind those eyes, the doubt that came from too many meetings with politicians too far removed from real life that ended up in too much time away from active practice and active missions. Bottom line: Colonel Thomas P. Ryan couldn't say for certain that he could perform in a dangerous and split-second sequence such as that which Sgt. Blane was contemplating, and it hurt like hell to admit it. But to _not_ acknowledge his lack of readiness would endanger his men, and Ryan had too much moral courage to allow that to happen. This was life and death. There was no room for error.

Ryan let out a long and bitter sigh. _Go ahead without me_. Hurt like hell to say it.

Blane nodded, accepted the decision.

Then he heard something, something very quiet but still meant to be heard by himself. A little _scritch scritch_ of a shoe being scraped along a rock-strewn tunnel that once qualified as a corridor. Pearly whites widened in a vicious grin, and he gestured to the air.

No further sound; none was needed. Two soldiers walked in, guns in hand, silent and ready for action. It was two soldiers that Blane and Ryan knew very well and were very glad to see.

More finger talk: _seven, maybe more. Gerhardt and Brown on the other side. Williams, handle the right; Grey, the left. On my mark_.

Blane sent a squib, then set the countdown. "On three. Mark."

Three.

Two.

One.

It all happened at once, and was over in just under two seconds, as it should have been. Each man strode into the alcove where the terrorists were doing their dirty work, identified the package that was not to harmed, selected a target that had been previously doled out, and then went after any leftovers still standing or fleeing. Each one knew what the other would be doing, knew how not to get in each other's line of fire. Knew what to do.

It went off like a drill.

When they were finished, only one enemy target was still breathing, and that stopped a moment later.

Blane did the preliminary assessment. "Clear. Check the bodies."

The clean up: make sure that the enemy was dead. Too many good men had died not keeping that rule, and none of the 303rd Logistical wanted to add to that number. More assessment followed: "Got a Glock here," Mack reported.

"A Heckler," Williams added.

"Would you believe a Kalashnikov?" Brown said wryly. "What was this, a sale on used weapons?"

"Black market," was Blane's opinion. "They used what they could get their hands on. Which suggests that they'd been planning this for a while, slowly accumulating weapons for an occasion such as this." He turned to the hostage, a man younger than he would have thought for a position such as what had been described to him. The man was the smallest of them all, curly brown hair, with intelligent brown eyes that right now were still clouded with terror; or, one of those eyes was. The other was rapidly developing a black halo that would be generating 'walking into a door' jokes for the next week at least.

Col. Ryan brought in the two Feds. Eppes went straight for his brother, clearly concerned and upset. "Charlie?"

Had to give the man credit, Ryan thought. Not many men, soldiers or otherwise, who could go through what the professor had and still come out talking. Shaking like a leaf, but talking.

Prof. Eppes grabbed onto his brother's arm, staggered and then righted himself. "Don! The code! I was able to integrate the post-Himmelman construct into the Wernicke Theorum, and the resultant responses fell into a fractal analytical pattern that correlated with the list of names."

Babbling. Typical for a rescued hostage; they either were silent with shock, or babbling and not making sense. This talking that the consultant was doing didn't mean anything to Ryan and, by the look on the FBI agent's face, it didn't mean anything to Special Agent Eppes either, but clearly the Fed had had lots of experience with his brother the genius. "That's good, Charlie. How about we get out of here first, before we go bringing down the entire terrorist organization?" Eppes steadied his brother, trying to keep him from connecting his backside to the rock-strewn floor prematurely.

Yup. There it was. Ryan recognized the pattern. The hostage was only now beginning to take in his surroundings, saw that there actually was other people here besides himself and his brother. That there were some soldiers that had just saved his ass, and a generous half dozen dead bodies that would stink up the place pretty soon if they didn't get the hell out of here. If the genius continued the pattern, there'd be a pretty quick disintegration, followed by some heavy duty shaking, maybe even some tears. _Yup, here it comes…_

The shaking got worse. The fingers clenched on Special Agent Eppes' arm. "Don…"

"Reinforcements, Charlie," Eppes said quietly, reassuring. Clearly Eppes knew the drill as well, had worked on hostage situations before even if he hadn't trained in the same rescue techniques as Ryan's men. Eppes glanced around, his gaze lighting on Gerhardt and Brown. "Where's Colby?" he asked.

Brown answered. "We left him back a hundred yards or so. He's banged up, but he's okay."

Professor Eppes almost lost it then, but caught himself just in time. "Thank God," he whispered, meaning it. He pulled himself together; there was a job to do. "Don, we need to talk." He eyed Ryan and his men nervously, clearly uncertain.

Eppes vouched for their rescuers. "They're safe. You can talk in front of them."

_Score one for the Fed_, Ryan thought. _So much for our dumb ass cover as logistical clerks. Even a Fed can see through it like a plate glass window pane_.

But the professor couldn't. "You don't understand, Don. I can't!"

_Great. We can fool a terrified out of his mind ivory tower college professor. I'll bet we could even pull the wool over Brown's little five year old daughter if we worked at it_.

Eppes kept trying. "If you have the decoded message, we can turn it over to the NSA. We can go home, Charlie. It's over."

The professor closed his eyes, and swayed. "No," he said. "Not the NSA."

_Not the NSA? What the hell was this consultant professor talkin' about—?_ Ryan would be the first to admit that he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he'd spent more than his share of time wrangling over the convoluted plots that had been hatched in the nation's capital. It clicked, and he went for the confirmation. "Are you sayin' what I think you're sayin', son?"

Now Professor Eppes did indeed look at Col. Ryan, really _looked_ at him, trying to decide what to do. Ryan could almost see the thoughts whirling through that brain, and his estimation of the professor edged upward. This wasn't a soldier for the battlefield, but the man was as good in his own field as any of Ryan's men were on theirs and right now the battlefield had shifted. This was Professor Eppes' world, and Ryan felt a cold dread seep in. A mistake here could cost thousands of lives, not just a small contingent under a broken down mountain.

If at all possible, this was not a matter to be decided on the fly. Intelligence needed to be shared, and information exchanged. Ryan cleared his throat, glancing at his watch. "Oh four-thirty. Whoever those names belong to, Dr. Eppes, I don't think they're going to be taking much action for another hour or two. I believe I saw a room down the hall that still had a few chairs and a table. What say we head there for the moment and talk this thing out?" Pause. "You look like sitting down might be the best thing right now."


	14. Cold 14 Unit

There were chairs in the room that Col. Ryan had pointed out, but not many. Gerhardt and Brown had retrieved the other FBI agent, Granger his name was, and put him in one, his face drawn with pain and his leg elevated. Special Agent Eppes had grabbed another for Professor Eppes, knowing that his brother would be popping out of it at any moment to deliver his lecture and then would collapse back down once the spurt of adrenalin ebbed away. Most of the other men stood.

The consultant, amazingly enough, still had his laptop. He'd had it when he'd been taken, and the machine had been put onto the floor for later use. The other Fed, Sinclair, had grabbed it before departing the alcove, unwilling to leave it behind with seven still steaming dead bodies.

It didn't take long. The professor didn't try to deliver a long lecture on the intricacies of code breaking. He didn't wax poetical over Goshdarnit's Theory or Whatever's Conclusion like some experts Ryan could talk about. The consultant simply named names.

It was bad.

Ryan whistled soundlessly through his teeth. "You're sure of this, Professor?"

"Yes." No equivocation. No weaseling about. Just lots of unhappiness.

"They made those appointments? They cut those deals? Be careful what you say, professor," Ryan warned. "We're talking treason, here."

"I'm aware of that, colonel," Professor Eppes said testily, "and I am certain of the message in the code. The deciphering is accurate; there's a way that a message falls into place once it's decoded. If you're asking me if they actually performed those actions; no, I can't verify that. I can only attest to what that code said."

"And that, in itself, is bad enough." The words sounded even more ominous in Jonas Blane's deep voice.

Prof. Eppes nodded. "So you see why I can't go to the NSA."

Special Agent Don Eppes, in charge of this piece of horse hockey, agreed. "Chain of command. Straight up the ladder." He sighed. There was a lot of sighing going on, and this situation deserved even more. "Question is: what are we going to do?"

"Talk it out," Ryan advised. "If you take it to your bosses at the NSA, it either gets buried or worse."

"Worse?" Prof. Eppes asked plaintively. "What could be worse than having this information buried in a file somewhere?"

Special Agent Eppes knew better. "Having it get buried with you in your grave, Charlie," he told his younger brother.

The consultant swallowed hard.

"Right." Planning; this was clearly the Fed's forte. Ryan listened to what was being said. Eppes didn't like what he was doing, not under the circumstances, but he was damn good at it. At the moment, that was an asset. Ryan wanted all the assets he could get his hands on. He allowed Eppes to dominate the discussion. "Let's look at options: the good, the bad, and the ugly. Ideas?"

"We could take it to the media," Sinclair suggested. "Look at Deep Throat, in the Nixon administration."

Eppes shook his head, Ryan agreeing with him. "No good, David. They will have had plenty of time to prepare, and they've all learned from that episode in history. No, they have ways to combat that. Look at that CIA operative who got exposed not too long ago, her cover blown out of the sky. She tried taking the responsible people to court; even the trial to convict the people doing the outing was a farce; only one guy was tried and convicted, then pardoned real fast. There was obstruction going on like crazy; the prosecution was lucky to get as far as they did. Nope, the media is not an option; not unless we all want to kiss our careers good bye, and then some. We'd be throwing everything away, and still wouldn't be able to bring anyone to justice." He jerked his thumb at the professor. "I don't know about you, but I'm still looking forward to watching Charlie here get a Nobel Prize."

"They don't have a Nobel Prize in math," the consultant replied faintly.

"Whatever." Eppes waved that aside. "The point is, going public won't work."

"And has a decent chance of getting you killed," Blane pointed out. "'Accidents' happen."

"But this is the United States government," Prof. Eppes tried to protest. It wasn't working very well.

Ryan took pity on him. "Son, there's a reason that my unit was created. We're experts at making those 'accidents' happen. Trust me on this one, and don't ask for any more details."

Professor Eppes shut up.

Special Agent Eppes couldn't; he was in charge. "So where do we go from here? We can't report up, and we can't go public. Where does that leave us?" He answered himself. "That means that we can't report it."

"We have to tell them something, Don," Granger said. He hadn't said much, but he was still listening, lines of pain etched deeply on his face. "When we emerge from this bunker, they're going to debrief. We have to have answers."

Col. Ryan knew where Eppes was going, and he helped out. "Why?"

"Why?"

Ryan pursued the point. "Why do we have to have answers?" He turned to the consultant. "What your brother is saying, Prof. Eppes, is that this is going to be the one time in your career that you failed to decipher the code. For the record," and he rode ruthlessly over the professor's opening protest, "you were not able to break it. And your laptop was lost under the rubble," he added grimly, "unless you can figure out a way to wipe that section clean beyond hope of recovery. That possible, professor?"

"Theoretically—"

"Can you do it, professor?" Ryan pushed. "'Cause neither me nor any of mine can, not without destroying the laptop altogether. Too many chances of somebody a lot cleverer than me dredging the intel up from where you'd thought you'd erased it. Can you do that, professor?" he repeated.

Prof. Eppes's face fell. "No," he admitted. "Even when you delete, the information is simply stored in another part of the memory where it isn't accessible unless you know how to go after it. But I have a lot of important research on that hard drive," he protested, "research that it will take years to repeat. I can't lose that!"

"Better that than your life," his brother told him.

"Don?"

Eppes took pity on his brother the consultant. "Look, Charlie; we don't have many options, here. Our best bet is to wait until after elections. Maybe then someone will be interested in a trial, but I wouldn't count on it. Right now we need to safeguard ourselves, and we can build in a little insurance doing it. We're going to go somewhere where we can make some copies of this information real fast. We need some disks for copies, and we spread those copies around."

Ryan agreed. "Then we bury that laptop. We bury it deep. I'm gonna be asking you for a copy of that data, Eppes. Me and mine will know where to put it so that it doesn't get into the wrong hands."

"I was hoping that you'd ask for it, colonel." Special Agent Eppes leaned back in his chair, tired beyond thought. Ryan watched the interplay of emotions on the FBI agent's face: he really hoped they were all making the right decision. There was a country at risk, not just the dozen careers in this room, and they all knew it. "Just in case they find it in our hands." Another thought occurred to the man. He eyed Ryan cautiously, like a hunter who just found himself facing a bear with only light birdshot in his gun. "Uh, you will make sure that any 'accident' we have gets thoroughly investigated?"

Sgt. Blane chuckled, his voice echoing in the small conference room. "Not if they ask _us_ to arrange it."

* * *

Trotting along, Ryan did a rapid-fire assessment in his head of the condition of his men and these FBI people they'd rescued. Blane and his team Ryan didn't have to worry about. Peak condition, dirty from slithering through bunker corridors crimped into kiddie tunnels and only just getting started, truth be told. Grey was still a little hopped up, but he always got that way before, during, and after setting off some charges like he'd just done to pull Lt. Bakker's boys out of their hole. Didn't matter; Blane would keep his man under control. Bakker himself was going to need a few days R & R in the base hospital, as was that FBI man that Gerhardt and Brown had dragged out. The dozen or so of Bakker's people Ryan would take charge of and send 'em back to whatever outfit they were from with instructions not to talk about this detail. Not that they knew much; the FBI types had only told them that they were there for protection and a football game and nothing else. Ryan approved; need to know. Those foot soldiers didn't have a need to know. 

The consultant had Ryan a mite worried. Lot of this stuff was going to rest on his shoulders, and the man looked beaten up and whipped to a pulp. Yeah, the man had been through a lot, and the way he was hobbling along suggested that a quick trip to the local emergency department wouldn't be a bad idea. There had to be a lot of places under those ripped and dirt-drenched clothes that would welcome some heavy duty narcotics right about now, but that wasn't what Col. Ryan was looking at. No, it was the way that Prof. Eppes hung his head that had Ryan most concerned. It was the fear that there was really no place to take the information that had been decoded and have it used properly that was causing those shoulders to droop with more than just 'dismay'.

Next best option: the message went nowhere for now. At least, it wouldn't go anywhere official. For the record, the code couldn't be deciphered, despite the laptop being carried by Agent Eppes that contained the answer encoded on the hard drive. That laptop, Ryan decided, could possibly be the most dangerous thing he'd ever come across, and that included the time when he'd led a small patrol through Kuwait as a young lieutenant more than a decade ago the first time that Iraq had gotten uppity. His patrol had come across a package that got a number of the upper brass all shook up, and had led Thomas P. Ryan to a pair of colonel's bars and a hell of a lot more cynicism about the world.

This was certainly a flimsy plan they'd settled on: hide the evidence. Not much of a plan, but there didn't seem to be anything better for the moment. Going public would be a great way to bring down wrath on their heads on the way to ridicule while their proof was buried and discredited in both legal and illegal fashions. At a minimum, the 303rd Logistical would be finished and his career with it, not to mention a bunch of undercover assignments that Beta and Gamma Squads were on and trying not to get themselves killed. A realistic scenario would include pushing the targeted parties into some illegal actions that would shove this nation into directions that it ought not to go, and Ryan and his men along with it.

Sigh. They _so_ did not pay him enough to make these kinds of decisions.

They got to the vehicle depot, hoping that the two vans and the two government-issued jeeps were still unharmed. Certainly the two vans were: both were sitting there, covered in mountain-style dust, one with a noticeable dent in the hood over the engine that wouldn't impair anything but its beauty. The hunk of mountain that had caused the dent was sitting off to the side, kissing the tire.

Both jeeps, however, were missing.

Private Mason, one of Bakker's men, was the first to notice. He pushed his way forward. "Hey, lootenant! The jeeps! Somebody took 'em."

Col. Ryan looked to the Fed. "Eppes?"

Eppes proved that he knew his job. He had the answer without even hunting down clues. "We have two people unaccounted for: the NSA agent Foster, and Pvt. Schmidt."

It made sense. "Two men, two jeeps. Doesn't sound like they're workin' together."

"Or they have a plan, with a half for each of them to carry out," Eppes reminded him grimly. "Either way, we're getting out of here." He raised his voice. Colonel Ryan may have been the ranking officer present, but this was still an FBI operation and Special Agent Eppes was still in charge."Load it up and move it out, gentlemen."

* * *

_Like taking candy from a baby_. Blane slipped the lockpick back into its case and tucked the whole kit into his pocket. Behind him, Williams kept a sharp eye out for any honest cop on patrol who would be trying to prevent exactly what the pair of them had in mind. The lock on this back door was designed to prevent the average criminal from sneaking inside and hauling out both big ticket items and the contents of the cash register. Unfortunately for the chain store stockholders, neither Blane nor Williams were anything close to average. Management didn't care. Their year end bonuses would come whether or not the store got robbed. 

Gonna make it look like someone did a bit of shop-lifting in the last couple of days, Blane promised himself. He already knew what they needed and, after a quick peek to make certain that the cameras in the upper corners were turned the other way, he picked up a thick set of computer disks. They came twenty to the package, not that Blane thought that they'd need all twenty but having too many was preferable to wanting more. He turned to go. He needed to hurry, before the cameras moved back onto this line of sight.

Nope. Hector Williams had found another toy: a nice long cord designed for people who couldn't stand to be without their laptop on a long car trip. Blane nodded. Good thought. They could get the professor started on downloading the information before they ever reached their destination, powering his laptop from the car battery en route.

They hurried away. The only results of their expedition would be the chewing out of the assistant manager who had obviously forgotten to turn on the silent alarm on the doors the night before. The loss of inventory had already been figured into the balance sheets as a mere part of the cost of doing business.

* * *

Blane kept his attention on the road leading up to the resort where his wife was still hopefully sleeping peacefully along with the other wives and the entire contingent of the Four Oh Ninety Six. He followed the other van driven by Col. Ryan, well aware of Gerhardt in the seat next to his and a half dozen of Bakker's soldiers in the back along with Sgt. Brown. It was a somber group that he was carting along, all of whom were well aware how lucky they had been that the 303rd Logistical had been in the area. Ryan, up ahead, had charge of the FBI agents and their consultant. Grey brought up the rear, driving his personal jeep back, and Williams was babying the cushy sedan over the ruts in the road. 

The entrance to the resort had a few tight turns to be negotiated, and Blane kept his full attention on keeping the wide wheels off the neatly manicured grass. It was one of those places which Blane could appreciate in pictures, but for the real outdoors Mother Nature had a better handle on artistry. The resort grounds were as manicured as the encroaching fall weather would allow, small evergreens chopped into fanciful shapes only seen in front of manufactured buildings and the last of the mums turning from orange into dried brown adding a bit of color. A grove of maples proved the advantage of red over green by hanging onto the leaves a bit longer than the trees around them.

Which was why Blane looked up in surprise when Mack Gerhardt said quietly, "Damn. What the hell happened?"

He wasn't talking about the immediate devastation. That had an obvious cause: someone with a bone to pick with soldiers staying at a fancy resort had taken a medium-sized truck and turned the front lobby into a garage without benefit of retractable doors. Shards of glass were strewn everywhere. Blane was going to be grateful for the heavy boots that he wore, impervious to sharp edges that would otherwise cut his feet to ribbons. The front desk was in two pieces.

No bodies. That was a good sign. No evidence of anyone living or dead. Whoever had done this had accomplished their task and left.

Where the hell was the Four Oh Ninety Six? More than that: where was his wife? Jonas felt a cold chill freeze his innards, a feeling more intense than any he'd experienced in more than two decades of soldiering. His wife wasn't supposed to get in the line of fire. She was supposed to be his safe haven. This wasn't supposed to happen at a fancy resort.

No time for emotions. They would only get in the way. The handgun felt solid at his waist, the black sheen of the larger automatic on the seat beside him glinting in the dawn's early light. Gerhardt too took a firm grip on his own weapon, right hand on the door handle, ready to jump down out of the van.

Blane pushed on the brake, allowing the van to roll to a stop behind the first. He glanced over his shoulder toward the back. "Sgt. Brown, instruct the men to remain where they are. You join us in front. We have a situation." Which was just enough of a statement to put an electrical shock into every man there, all of whom wanted to jump out of the van and put out whatever fire Sgt. Blane had identified.

Sgt. Brown turned to Bakker's men. Not in his unit, but he out-ranked them with both rank and simple presence. "Stay here," he ordered.

Blane approached the other van, Gerhardt and Brown in his wake. Williams too had jumped out of the sedan and was closing rank with Grey, guns in hand.

Ryan looked back into the cab of the van and accepted something from Special Agent Eppes: three computer disks, two of which he offered to Blane and Gerhardt. Ryan spoke to the inhabitants of the van. "Give us twenty minutes, and if nobody reports back to this location, you skedaddle." He turned to his men. "Move out."


	15. Cold 15 Unit

This wasn't supposed to be a combat mission, but all of a sudden it was. The devastation in the front lobby was clear evidence of that. Sgt. Blane coldly smiled to himself. The purpose behind this mission was now crystalline. This so-called "R & R" team-building exercise had simply been a ploy by someone with a devious mind to get a team in place for use. There were machinations upon machinations, and the disk that had been copied by the FBI consultant was burning a hot hole in his back pocket. Master Sergeant Jonas Blane sincerely hoped that he would not be placed in a position where he would have to admit ownership to the disk or knowledge of what lay upon it.

Despite being up all night, he was not tired. Adrenalin, once again in full pursuit of his muscles, took care of that. The immediate threat of death helped. The automatic felt light as a feather, and, he suspected, the rest of his team felt the same way.

Ryan used silent hand signals: Blane and Grey, to the left. Gerhardt, Brown, take the right. Ryan kept Williams to himself, covering any movement from the back end, watching their six.

Nothing.

Then Blane signaled: _I hear something_.

_Investigate_.

Blane acknowledged the order. He and Grey advanced, leap-frogging for cover, peering around anything that could serve to hide a man with a weapon.

Nothing.

Blane listened. Yes, voices were what he heard. He listened harder, looking to Grey for confirmation.

English. First rate cussing in English from more than one throat, not trying for silence, which meant that whoever was doing back alley language didn't think there was any need to keep their voices down. Which then proceeded to the notion that whoever had caused the chaos and strife was long gone.

Blane took a chance. "You in there. Identify yourselves."

Sudden silence, as they realized that they were no longer alone.

"This is Col. Petersen. We're armed. Who's there?"

Blane relaxed. "Sgt. Blane, of the 303rd."

"Thank God!" The babble began. Blane motioned Col. Ryan forward along with the others, and the story came out.

There wasn't much to it. Not more than an hour ago, the resort had been shaken by an earthquake that wasn't an earthquake. Someone had driven a truck into the front lobby and a mob of angry men had shot up the place. No one in Petersen's command had a weapon with them; like Ryan's men, they'd been ordered to leave their regulation weaponry at home. There were four soldiers dead in the first wave. The attackers, looking like about a dozen among them, had rounded up the staff and guests like cattle, herded them into the main ballroom, and then taken a few people hostage and roared off in the truck. The resort shotguns, used on the target range, were now in the hands of the Four Oh Ninety Six, all seven of the pea-shooters as well as sixteen boxes of shells, and all useless with no one to shoot at.

Blane knew what was coming, knew it since observing the crowd. Ryan asked the question. "Who got taken?"

"Six of us," Petersen told him grimly. "They knew who to take. My wife. Yours. The wives of Blane, Gerhardt, and Brown. And Ainsley."

"The shrink?" _Why him?_

"None other, colonel."

"Any one else?"

"No one."

It fit. It hurt, but it fit. Ryan knew that as well as he knew his own name. There was an unseen hand here.

And, _by God_, the 303rd Logistical was going to break a few fingers.

* * *

"I find this hard to believe, Eppes," Col. Ryan said to the FBI agent in charge of this fiasco. 

They'd pulled the consultant and everyone else inside the devastated building, which was a relief to everyone. For the soldiers, it meant better cover. For math professor, a chair with soft padding was definitely welcome after the last few hours spent crawling through a bombed out bunker, getting turned into human jelly by the bombers, and then traveling in a van designed for hard work instead of comfort. Granger and Lt. Bakker had been put in one of the guest rooms with a medic for the time being. Col. Ryan and Special Agent Eppes had talked over sending the pair to the local hospital, and grimly decided against it. That would be a clear signal to whoever was orchestrating this mess that things weren't going quite as planned. The inhabitants of the 'abandoned' bunker in the mountain weren't supposed to have survived the 'earthquake'. Neither man was so badly off that they couldn't wait. Col. Ryan locked down the resort; no one in or out and, more importantly, no information in or out.

As soon as he could, Prof. Eppes pulled his brother aside. "Don," he hissed, "I can find those hostages." Ryan and the others perked up their ears. A lead?

"What?" Eppes's attention was caught, as the consultant knew that it would be. "You can? How?" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Eppes grimaced. "Never mind. Don't answer that. You can do this?"

"I can," the mathematician affirmed, brown eyes large and determined. "I can work some probabilities analyses around distances, road conditions, need to remain in contact with Col. Ryan and his men for negotiations; that sort of thing. I just need some maps. And my laptop."

"You've got it," Eppes promised. "David? Can you find some maps of this place?"

Brown spoke up before the other FBI agent could respond. "Already got them." He handed over a folded piece of paper, a copy of the map that he'd downloaded just last evening. _Some of these things sure come in handy_, Ryan thought to himself.

Prof. Eppes unfolded it, saw the download of a local map that the soldiers of the unit had used to pull the FBI squad and Bakker's men out of the bunker. He turned his full gaze onto Sgt. Brown. "Thank you," he told him, meaning more than just the map.

He pointed at the large pad of paper on an easel; standard equipment for a conference room where businessmen drew pictures and simple outlines to illustrate their points. "I need that," he told his brother, trying to push himself out of the chair. It was slow going; everything hurt. And then hurt some more, it was clear. _Gotta give the man credit for guts_, Ryan decided.

"Sit," Eppes insisted. "I'll bring it over to you."

"I need to stand," was the rejoinder. "I think better on my feet."

"Charlie—"

"Don." It turned into a staring contest; a pissing war. Ryan squashed down a grin. It wasn't easy, sitting in a chair and looking up at his brother and staring him down, but somehow Prof. Eppes managed it. _Damn. Gotta learn that technique. Got a couple of generals that it might work on._

"Charlie—"

"Don." Quietly. With certainty. This was what Prof. Eppes could do, and he knew best how to do it. If it meant ignoring the various bruises, it would be a small price to pay to thank these soldiers who had just saved his life. He would do it, no matter what, and Ryan appreciated it.

Special Agent Eppes gave in, accepting the large pad and easel that Sinclair dragged over, helping to position it in front of the consultant. He hooked an arm underneath his brother's shoulder, ignoring the hiss that his brother couldn't quite conceal, helping him to stand.

The work seemed to go as fast or faster than anything Ryan had seen any DOD computer spit out. Numbers and Greek letters flashed onto the large white paper, only to be ripped down and a second set, more focused, applied in a second color of marker. One line connected one set of equations, then another, and a third. Circles surrounded various factoids, sectioning them off into correlations that only the professor could see. Then--

"I've got it." Again: quietly, with certainty.

"Charlie?" From Eppes.

"All...I have to do...is let the computer..." The man's voice started to drift off.

Drifted off, not in a good way. "Charlie?" Eppes started to get alarmed. "Charlie, you okay?"

_News flash, Eppes. Seen it before. Your man's going down_._ You gonna do something about it?_

The professor turned his head slowly, entirely too slowly. Ryan could see the man's eyes starting to roll back into his head, watched as beads of sweat popped out on his brow. Watched him begin to sag. Ryan motioned to the nearest soldier.

"Charlie!" Eppes leaped forward in time to catch his brother, Grey nearest and right along side of him.

Grey took over. "Head down," he ordered, helping Eppes to wrestle the stricken man into one of the chairs. "Take some deep breaths. You just pushed it a little too hard, professor."

Prof. Eppes groaned. "Computer..." he begged.

"Charlie--"

"Time factor," the mathematician gasped. "Gotta..."

"Take a sip of cold water, professor." Grey accepted the glass from Gerhardt, held it to the man's lips, Eppes steadying his brother's hand.

Prof. Eppes shuddered, letting the shock of the cold liquid bring him back to his senses. Then he pushed them away, reaching for his laptop. "No time."

His brother did the reaching for him, pulling the laptop closer, still holding his brother up. Prof. Eppes dove in, once again ignoring everything around him, putting all of his strength into tapping the keyboard in front of him. Grey shook his head, and Ryan could all but hear the sergeant's thoughts: _got the courage of a soldier_.

Then it was done. Prof. Eppes sat back wearily in the chair, looking as pale as the white linens on the side table, closing his eyes in sheer exhaustion. "It's done. You'll have the answers in a few seconds." Which was when Col. Ryan, as apparently had many before him if the look on the professor's face was to be believed, questioned the accuracy of the statistically significant prediction.

Special Agent Eppes folded his arms. "Yeah, there have been times when Charlie has to work to convince me, too. Trust him. If he says that he can figure out where that truck is, then he can do it."

"I can't figure out _exactly_ where the truck is," Prof. Eppes said irritably, his attention still on the supposedly destroyed laptop which was valiantly trying to multi-task by both churning out disks and completing the calculations demanded of it by its beloved master. The mathematician himself was trying to multi-task by both working on the computer and not falling over again. "All I'm doing is giving you the greatest likelihood of its position, based on variables such as time elapsed, topology, characteristics of engine speed…" He drifted off, this time with better results. "Hah."

"Hah?"

"That's Charlie-speak for 'I've got the answer'," Agent Eppes interpreted, watching the tableau like a hawk. "Results, Chuck. Now. Without the lecture."

Col. Ryan peered over Prof. Eppes' shoulder as he pointed to a spot on the map that he'd pulled up on his computer. "Here. Eighty-four percent probability of the truck being within half a mile of this location for the next ten minutes. After that the percentages go down."

"Which means we hustle, gentlemen." _Damn_ good. Ryan knew a gift horse when he heard it. They had a lead. Might not pan out, but it was better than sitting here on their collective ass. Ryan looked at his watch. "Petersen, you keep your people under wraps right here. Provide security for these nice Federal agents. Do whatever they tell you to do. Clear?"

"Yes, sir." Petersen may have been a lieutenant colonel, but he knew an order when he heard it and he knew when things were well above his pay grade.

Special Agent Eppes wasn't finished, either. "David," he said to his man, the one still standing, "stick closer to Charlie than marmalade on toast."

"Got it, Don. Where'll you be?"

"Yes," Ryan put in, "where will you be, Eppes?"

Special Agent Eppes stared the colonel down. "With you, colonel. Or have you forgotten that this is a Federal case? I have jurisdiction; you don't. You need a Federal agent along with you to make whatever arrests are warranted."

Sgt. Blane moved in, went for looming. "What makes you think, Special Agent Eppes, that there is going to be anyone around for you to arrest?"

Clearly Eppes had been loomed over before, and was used to standing his ground. "Because, Sgt. Blane, there needs to be someone to interrogate. Someone with a few answers is needed who hopefully can't get lost in the system or shut up by someone higher in government circles before the ACLU can get wind of him." He jerked his thumb at Prof. Eppes. "That code that Charlie broke? That can get hidden under a classified label. It's a little bit harder with a living, breathing suspect with nothing to lose, one who's eager to throw egg in someone's deserving face." He folded his arms. "_That's_ why I'm going to the scene of a possible kidnapping, with support in the form of the 303rd Logistical. That clear enough for you?"

No smile. "Clear enough, Special Agent Eppes."

And, Ryan thought to himself, would help to preserve what was left of their tattered and frayed cover, no matter that it was a dumb ass cover to begin with.

_God help us_.

* * *

Sgt. Brown knew what was coming the moment that Jonas Blane held him back. They had just jumped out of a jeep that they'd commandeered, he and Blane and Ryan and the FBI agent Eppes. The others had been ahead of them, racing onward with Charlie Grey taking the corners using only two tires to save wear and tear on the rubber before screeching to a halt in a grove not far away from their target area. Blane had swung his own vehicle in behind Grey's, dust flying and men grabbing more tightly to their contraband weapons. 

"Sgt. Brown."

Damn. Top was using military protocol, which meant that he was speaking as team leader, not a favor. This would be an order, no matter how it was couched. Brown schooled his features into submission. "Sgt. Blane."

"Bob, I need you to stick close to the FBI agent. Keep him out of trouble, and keep him safe. Last thing we need is him getting himself shot up. We need him intact, to run interference with whatever is going to come of this little dust up." A softer approach, because Blane knew that Bob wanted to be as close to the action as possible. That one of those hostages was Bob's wife, the mother of his children, and that Sgt. Bob Brown needed to do something about it. Blane knew exactly how he felt, because Sgt. Jonas Blane's wife was another of those hostages.

"Yes, sir." Acknowledgement of the order, because argument was not going to get him anywhere. Baby-sitting detail. Bob hoped that the FBI agent would take orders well. From what he'd seen so far, he wasn't counting on it. It would have been nice for Top to assign it to Hector instead, but it hadn't happened. Bob was the newbie. Bob was the expert at talking people into whatever they needed talking into, the man with the silver tongue. _Take your lumps, Brown. Forget that it's your wife, along with Top's and Mack's and the old man's, sitting there waiting for a kidnapper to blow their brains out through their ears._

_You think maybe that's the reason that Top gave you this assignment?_

Sgt. Brown refused to let the steam vent through either his eyes or any other part of his expression. This was the job, and if he couldn't keep himself under control now then he couldn't control his part of the mission. Sgt. Brown was damn good at his job.

Blane nodded. "Good man." He turned to the others, already waiting in a semi-circle for Blane to direct them. Col. Ryan had delegated the mission planning to Sgt. Blane and his team because he knew that they were the best at what they did. That was part of the rules: plan your own mission. _If you're going to get your ass shot off, do it because it was your screw-up, not some armchair tactician's_.

Not that it made much difference. The amount of planning possible was directly proportional to the amount of available intel, and right now there was precious little of either. All the FBI consultant had been able to give them was an eighty-four percent probability of this being the location where the terrorists had stopped for a cigarette and a quick workshop in 'How To Make a Pipe Bomb on the Fly'.

If the consultant was correct, then the workshop was currently in session in that boarded up mansion over there. The group of seven approached it on foot, the jeeps left far enough away so as not to be seen. Fifty years ago, Bob decided, it had probably been the home of one of the town fathers; a doctor, perhaps, or even the local district judge. It had seen better days. Today it had boards nailed over all of the windows on the first floor and several on the second and third, and the wrap-around porch no longer wrapped around the portion of the house that it was supposed to. Tall grass surrounded the place except for the bare spots of hardened dirt. White paint peeled from every clapboard, revealing two layers of other colors made dingy by the weather before exposing the wood to the elements.

There was no need for voices. Sound would have posed an unnecessary risk. Blane gave his orders with his hands: _Gerhardt, Williams, scout around either side, see what you can find. Report back._

Two shadows ghosted off, barely able to be seen in the early dawn light.

They waited, not moving a muscle, hiding in the grove of leafless white birches, watching the mansion for signs of habitation, something to tell them that the FBI consultant had, against all common sense, nailed the position. It didn't seem possible that a few statistics could pull this particular rabbit out of the hat, but Ryan had talked to the FBI guy squatted beside Brown. Ryan had been convinced. Therefore, the mission went forward.

_Got a better idea, Bobby boy? Didn't think so_.

Brown's opinion of the Federal agent grudged upward. The man knew how to wait, knew how to hide without fidgeting to give them away. Was he ex-military? Brown didn't think so, despite a lot of state-side cops being from the armed forces, cops at all levels, local and federal. Eppes didn't have that ramrod-stiff spine. The agent was too fluid, too used to areas being all shades of gray. Didn't really have a better way of saying it, not without insulting a guy who didn't deserve it. Brown could always sniff out a military background, and this guy didn't have it.

Didn't mean that the guy wasn't any good. Like he'd thought, somewhere this Federal agent had learned how to track a man. He'd been in firefights, knew how to handle a gun and come out the other side with the prize; the way that Eppes held his handgun told Brown that more clearly than any resume. This baby-sitting job was either going to be smooth as Bob's baby son's behind, or it was going to be a bitch and a half trying to keep the agent from charging ahead and yelling, "Federal agents! Freeze!"

Mack and Williams returned as silently as they'd left. Mack spoke first.

"They're in there," he said grimly. "Saw the footprints. Heard 'em talking. Jabbering in something I couldn't quite make out. Middle Eastern, though."

"Farsi," Williams clarified. "One of the up country dialects, broad enough and quiet enough that I couldn't tell what they were saying. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Ryan, colonel."

"She all right, Williams?"

"She has a bruise on her cheek, but I didn't see anything else. She was in the back room—the kitchen, I think—tied to a chair, and scared. She's not going anywhere. Not yet."

"Anyone else?" Brown was grateful to Blane for putting out the question. He wasn't certain that he could do it himself without his voice shaking.

"I couldn't see anyone else. I had a hard enough time seeing Mrs. Ryan," Williams reported. "I heard Ainsley in the background, talking to the kidnappers. I may have heard Mrs. Gerhardt; I'm not certain."

"How many?" Blane was already planning the rescue.

Williams was not happy. "No way to tell. A lot. More than six, probably not more than twenty."

"Definitely less than twenty," Mack told them. "Footprints show somewhere around eight to ten of them, maybe a baker's dozen, plus the wives. Plus Ainsley."

"Layout of the house?"

Mack started drawing in the hard dirt, using a twig that broke and replacing it with a stouter version. "Entranceway. Parlor to the left, dining room to the right. Some sort of sitting room behind the parlor where some of the women are being kept along with Ainsley. Kitchen in the other corner, got a door with a knob that's about to fall off. Hinges look like they'll squeak all to hell and back."

Williams took over. "This wing on the right is empty. It looks like it used to be some sort of indoor greenhouse; now it's filled with trash. Don't go through there, Top. One of us will trip over something and alert the world."

"And all the windows are boarded up," Blane mused half to himself, half-hoping that someone would come up with an idea. He tossed a glance toward the house, looking for inspiration. "Second floor?"

"There's a tree over there," Brown started to say, when Eppes interrupted him.

"Look, I know this is going to over like a lead balloon, but I need to put it out there. I've done some hostage negotiations, colonel. I've seen better, but I'm not too shabby."

"Thank you, Special Agent Eppes, but I don't think that talking to these guys is going to be particularly helpful." Colonel Ryan remained calm. He'd been practicing. He'd gotten lots of practice these days, in his present position. Seemed like all he did any more was make nice to those people in Washington and elsewhere who had what he and his men needed to get the job done. "Those men inside are terrorists, and would be just as happy to change their designation to suicide martyrs."

"Which is exactly why talking to them is the best option," Eppes persisted. "How many are there inside? Eight? Ten? How many do you think you can take out before they start shooting back and the hostages get in the way? The moment you open fire, there are going to be six dead people in there."

Several stony faces stared back at him, fingers whitening on guns.

Not Sgt. Blane's. His face was thoughtful. "You have a point, sir." He looked Eppes directly in the eye. "Tell me straight up: how good are you really?" He paused to let his next sentence sink in. "My wife's life depends on your answer, Special Agent Eppes."

Eppes was ready. "As I said, I'm good. I'm not the best, but I'm good. I've led my own team for a number of years now, and I ran my own office in New Mexico." He too paused. "I've done hostage negotiations more than once. Some I've won, others I've lost."

Mack pushed in. "That's my wife in there too, Eppes. You think you can talk her out of their hands?"

"Do you think going in, guns blazing, will get her out in anything other than a body bag?"

"I think it's a whole hell of a lot more practical than trying to talk sense into a bunch of fanatics—"

"Keep it down, sergeant," Ryan ordered. "Jonas, what's your opinion?"

The options weren't good, and Blane let that fact reflect in his expression. "We don't have a lot of choices here, and none that are particularly good. Let's see if we can't put together one plus one and come up with three."

Eppes frowned. "Isn't that my brother's line?"


	16. Cold 16 Unit

First headliner on the marquee. Ryan squashed a grunt as he hauled himself up into the tree behind Sgt. Grey. The official reason that he was playing back up for Mr. Soccer was that he was one of the less hefty soldiers on this mission. Williams was lighter, but Williams had also been training directly with the rest of Alpha on assault tactics, and when split seconds counted, having that immediate response would make the difference between life and death for someone special. Ryan had to admit, Jonas Blane was correct in his decision. If something went wrong, if he and Grey got spotted, then the rest of the team was in a better position to move in for their parts of this mess.

He grabbed another branch, slipping a foot onto the sturdy limb that could hold his weight. Grey was already above him, over Ryan's head by another two feet or so, peering into the window of the boarded up mansion. The window that Grey was aiming for wasn't boarded up, and didn't even have any glass in it to keep out the cold. The glass was long gone; even the shards were ground into the dirt by the years.

Hell of a place. If it had been Ryan doing the choosing, this was not the place that he'd have lit, and he was grateful that the kidnappers weren't as choosy. Sure, it was in the open and tough to get to unseen, but the early dawn light helped with that. Being up all night also tended to make a man sleepy and these folks were at the point where the adrenalin would be seeping away and making them all the more tired for that. And this tree—! It was tailor-made for the shenanigans that he and Sgt. Grey were contemplating. Dumb ass terrorists. Ryan was grateful for their stupidity.

Grey hoisted himself inside, feet cat-quiet on the wooden floor boards, looking around with a knife in his hand. His automatic was across his back, but quiet was what Carlito wanted at the moment: a long look, a cross to the almost closed door, and a long listen. Then he waved for Ryan to slide himself in through the broken window. Ryan grabbed the edge of the sill to help himself along, avoiding the lone sliver of glass still left that tried to grab him and slice open a gash in his thumb.

This was still a tricky operation, and his and Grey's job was to make it less so. Grey pulled the door open just wide enough to slip through, the hinges protesting but quietly enough so that all the pair of them did was to pause and listen.

Nothing. Ryan could hear voices down below, some in English and some in something else. Farsi, Williams had thought. Ryan wasn't about to argue. At least three or four of them in that room alone, judging by the different voices. Mack had thought that there was at least eight to ten of the little buggers, and Ryan wasn't going to argue that either. His job was to reduce the numbers to something more manageable.

Grey held up his hand: _stop_. Ryan halted. More hand signals: _breathing inside this room_. The breathing was slow and steady: the breather was asleep. Grey put his hand on the knob, twisting, stopping once as the metal grated against itself with a high pitched whine. Still no response, and by now Ryan was close enough to hear the breathing for himself. More pressure on the knob, and Grey eased the door open. He slipped in, motioning for Ryan to remain on watch.

Three short moments later Grey was back. He wiped the blade of his knife on the cloth runner that still draped itself over the cock-eyed table in the hall. The cloth came away stained with red. Grey kept his face as cold as the air seeping in through the broken window.

One less terrorist to oppose them.

They moved on.

* * *

The short burst of static echoed in Brown's ear, inaudible to any except those wearing the appropriate ear-wear. It was time. Grey and the colonel had gone as far as they could before the danger of exposure became too great. Blane and the others were in the back, ready for their part of this mission. Brown touched the FBI agent on the sleeve. "Ready?" 

Eppes nodded, his hand on his gun. No shaking, Brown noted. Nerves under control. _Of course. It's not his wife inside_.

Brown moved away from the boulder, away from cover into another grove of trees that offered less cover but a better vantage point. He could still see Eppes, the Federal agent waiting for the signal to begin.

_It's all up to you, Bob. On your signal, everything starts to happen. Men will shout, guns will fire, and people will die. Are you ready for that? Ready for Kim to be one of the dead bodies, ready to feel her life's blood spilling onto your hands as the light slowly fades from her eyes? Ready to tell your baby girl that Mommy's not coming home from her vacation?_

He gave the signal.

Special Agent Eppes stood up, still partially covered by the boulder. "Federal agents! FBI! You, inside the house! Come out with your hands in the air!"

As expected, there was a moment of shocked silence. Both men could feel it from several yards away. They could all but see the frenzied dash for weapons, the rush to the front to see what was arrayed against them. The noise bustled out, filled with exotic shouted words and stomping feet and fear. Gun butts hammered out holes in the boards covering the windows on the first floor, just enough to see through and to shoot through yet not so large as to present an inviting target.

"We have hostages—"

Gunfire drowned out the rest of the phrase.

* * *

They were ready. All three--Blane, Gerhardt, and Williams--had heard the radio squib sent through, all three had weapons ready. Nerves ready. All ready for action. It would come all too soon. They held themselves close against the back of the house, flat against the walls so that they couldn't be seen. The back door leading into the kitchen, half of the door sill hanging into thin air over broken steps, was still wedged shut: so much tissue paper between the soldiers and their target. 

The FBI agent's voice could be heard clearly in front of the house. "Federal agents! FBI! You, inside the house! Come out with your hands in the air!"

_Now_.

Blane led, moving like a panther into the midst of a flock of partridges. Hostages: identified. Take out the nearest kidnapper, and the next. Aware of Gerhardt, next in line, going for kidnappers to his right. Williams, terrorists to the left.

Four dead bodies.

And three live hostages: Mrs. Ryan, Mrs. Petersen, and Mrs. Gerhardt.

Only three. _Damn_. Where were the rest?

Still organized. Still moving according to plan. The bulk of the enemy had been drawn to the front of the building by the Federal agent, making it safer for the hostage rescue. Blane went to the front of the kitchen, to secure their position. Gerhardt and Williams pulled out knives, had the captives freed within seconds. Time was precious.

Tiffy pulled the tape off of her mouth. "Mack—"

"Out!" he growled, stopping her with a glare.

No time for anything but moving. Williams grabbed Mrs. Petersen by the arm, ignoring her sobs, shoved her out through the ruined back door. Mrs. Ryan followed and last, Mrs. Gerhardt. Still according to plan. _Get the hostages to safety_. Williams pulled them out, hustling them toward the line of trees where they could wait for the rest of the drama to play out.

Three safe, three more to go: Mrs. Blane, Mrs. Brown, and Dr. Ainsley. Col. Ryan and Sgt. Grey joined them in the kitchen, clattering down the stairs from the second floor and jumping over the last tread with a splintered hole in it.

"Top floors all secure," Grey reported tersely. "Three down for the count."

"Hostages?"

"None." Grey didn't waste time with apologies. The hostages hadn't been stashed upstairs, or else they would have been found and rescued and removed from the line of fire. Still time for action.

They did have time for this: "Mrs. Ryan is safe, Tom. Williams is with them, outside." That was all. Blane turned away, ready for the next part of the plan. There were three more hostages to be rescued.

A shot through the wooden kitchen door almost scratched a red line in Blane's scalp. He ducked reflexively, and a string of non-English curses followed the bullet through the splintered door.

They all hit the floor. A flurry of lead shredded the rest of the door, turning it into an inept screen to keep out bugs and terrorists.

So much for surprise. So much for pulling the terrorists to the front of the boarded up mansion. Blane shoulder-rolled to the edge of the room, the others copying him, trying to avoid both the bullets and the splinters of wood arrowing through the air like miniature spears. Grey let out an inadvertent curse as one such splinter dug a hole in his hand. He shook it off with a drop or two of blood spattering the floor.

Not good. No surprise left, and three more hostages to rescue. That meant that the enemy could afford to sacrifice two hostages and still be in control. That had to change. How many of the enemy? Blane couldn't tell. More than one, that was for damn certain.

This wasn't just any military exercise. This wasn't a situation where 'acceptable losses' was a concept to be applied. No loss was acceptable. Fifty percent rescued meant three dead hostages, meant that Jonas Blane would have to explain to his daughter why he was suddenly a widower. Fifty percent survival meant that Bob Brown's kids would grow up with only one parent.

This wasn't helping. Jonas Blane was a soldier, and a damn good one. He was trained in tactics, and in creativity to get the job done, and letting his emotions pull at him wasn't helping.

They needed options, dammit.


	17. Cold 17 Unit

Surround, and contain.

With only two of them, 'surrounding' was a tad difficult. Still, Brown would do the best that he could. The fact that Kim's life was at stake wasn't going to make a difference. Letting it make a difference meant that his judgment would be compromised, and that would result in a dead hostage. In a dead Kim.

His hand wasn't trembling. He wouldn't let it.

He concentrated on the federal agent. Special Agent Don Eppes had engaged the terrorist in negotiations, was trying to get the man to come out into the open. It was working; the FBI man was good at his job. If Kim—no, simply call her 'the hostage'. Anything else hurt too much—if the hostage could be pulled far enough out, then Brown himself could take the man down with a single shot. Brown could do it. It was for those single shots that he spent hours on the firing range until he could pluck a chicken out of a flock at a moment's notice.

There were an additional two hostages inside: Molly Blane and Dr. Ainsley. He wouldn't mind Ainsley catching one in the back of the neck but Molly Blane had led the welcoming committee when he and Kim had transferred in. Brown could rescue his own wife, and listen as the leftovers inside took their captives to hell. Not an option.

His radio whispered in his ear. "Cool Breeze. Sit-rep."

Eppes pulled the terrorist another foot further from the door, encouraging the man out with tiny inched steps, promising him comfort by way of an escape vehicle.

Brown swallowed hard. "First hostage, outside, gun to her head." _Hostage, not Kim. Hostage, not Kim_. He peered at the front of the house. He could just barely see inside past the terrorist holding a gun to the hostage's head. He steeled himself, forced himself to utilize the training he'd worked so hard to acquire. "Snake Doctor, I can see inside. Four more hostiles, at a minimum. Two at the window, watching. Second, near hostage two in the center of the parlor. I can see the leg of hostage three, sitting in a chair to my left. Unknown if hostage three is still alive. Third target near your door. Unknown if there are more hostiles."

"Got it, Cool Breeze. Eliminate hostile number two. On your mark."

Brown froze. Blane was giving him control once more, as the man with the best view and therefore the best decision. It was the right thing to do. It was the right thing to give Bob Brown control over the start button that would kill both his wife and Top's wife. Kill the terrorist inside, the one that had a gun aimed at Molly Blane, improve the odds at getting the most hostages out of this mess alive. Ignore the one outside, because there was only one terrorist there and four inside. Even the odds. Two hostages inside, only one outside. Hope that the FBI agent could handle things, even though the man wasn't a trained assault team member.

Bob Brown hated his job.

"On my mark," Brown heard himself agreeing. A certain cold settled over him, and with it the logical precision needed to make this work. There were no other options. Sergeant Brown had trained long and hard for situations like these. He took aim, waiting, chanting to both himself and whispering through the radio so that his team would know exactly when it would go down. "Yellow. Yellow. Red. Yellow. Yellow. Green."

He squeezed the trigger. Just once, but it was enough. It was the ideal moment, the perfect time, and things happened as though this was a routine training exercise. The black dot which used to be the pupil of the eye turned red. The body jerked and flopped, dead before it hit the wooden floor.

The world dissolved into a cacophony of gunfire.

Brown could barely keep track of the movement inside. The door to the kitchen, in the back of the parlor, slammed open and four soldiers were in and shooting. First shot: terrorist guarding the kitchen door. Mack did for that one. He saw Blane's gun spit lead, thought that it went toward one of the men at the window watching Special Agent Eppes try to reason with their comrade. He saw Charlie Grey's gun jerk in his hand, knew that more rounds had been fired, didn't know what Grey was aiming at.

And Sgt. Brown heard another shot, one that hadn't come from the rest of his unit; a bullet fired from a handgun.

_Eppes_.

The cold in his belly was replaced by a nuclear blast: _Kim_ was with Eppes. Eppes had been trying to talk the man down, a discussion which had just been blown to hell and back when Bob Brown fired the first shot. Eppes wouldn't have known when the moment would be. He didn't have a radio. Bob Brown had transmitted all the other intel from his team inside to the FBI agent, planning this operation.

Brown was on his feet and running before his mind said anything to his feet. He raced around the corner to find—

Kim, crouched on the ground, Eppes hovering over her with his gun ready to take down anyone who threatened her.

The terrorist's body lay steaming in front of them, his final breath cascading upward in a waft of white.

"Kim?" Hardly daring to believe.

"Bob!"

It was a good thing that he trusted his brothers to be at his back, Bob would reflect later on, because his training finally went straight to hell as he gathered his wife into his arms and swore that he would never let her go.

* * *

Thirteen people—seven rescuers and six rescuee's—wouldn't fit in two jeeps, so Col. Ryan called back to the resort for Petersen to send back one of the vans that they had taken from the bunker, instructing the lieutenant colonel to give an update to the appropriate people in Washington as to the situation. He assigned Sgt. Blane to take the van and loaded it with his people, figuring that the hostages were still so frightened from the experience that having a few soldiers hovering nearby would be the best thing for their nerves, though he put his wife and the wife of Lt. Col. Petersen in the back seat of the jeep with Special Agent Eppes and himself.

Ryan wanted to talk with the Federal agent, and wanted to do so in relative private. With the top down, it was difficult to impossible for the two army wives to hear what they were saying, and that was just the way that Ryan wanted it. Charlotte Ryan he could trust, but Lydia Petersen was an unknown quantity. He waited until they were on the road.

"Eppes, we got another problem," he used as an opening salvo. "Petersen got through to Washington." He could see the dismay written plain on Eppes' face. He felt it himself. "They want Ainsley to conduct the initial investigation."

Eppes blinked. "You mean Dr. Ainsley, the guy we just rescued?"

"The very one, Eppes."

Ryan could see Special Agent Eppes trying to figure out how to word his next question politely. "Isn't it a little odd for one of the hostages to do the questioning of the personnel involved? Even for the Army?"

"Request didn't come from the Army, Eppes. It came from the NSA."

That took Eppes aback. "The NSA? The same alphabet soup agency that started this whole mess?"

"You heard me correctly, Special Agent Eppes. Now, why do you think that my superiors would willingly hand over an investigation involving my men and myself, not to mention our wives, to another branch of the government?" Ryan had his own suspicions.

"Who told you that it was being done willingly?" Eppes shot back.

"I see your thoughts are running alongside of mine." Ryan nodded approvingly. "According to what Petersen told me, the NSA has forwarded instructions for army psychologist Dr. Stephan Ainsley to conduct an investigation into this matter and forward a report to the NSA where it will be taken under advisement."

"And—?"

"Dr. Ainsley is one of the sharpest men I know," Ryan admitted unhappily. "Can't stand the bastard. Gets his jollies out of making honest men squirm." He tossed a significant glance in Eppes' direction, working to put a world of meaning into that swift look. "Can your brother keep his head with someone like that? I know he's a certified genius and all of that, but Ainsley's like a shark. He smells blood, and it'll be all over."

He could see the thoughts turn over in Eppes' head, the man wanting to tell him that that consultant of his could outsmart a bastard like Ainsley, could run him in circles if he so desired. He saw the honesty of the Federal agent.

Ryan put it into words. "I take it by your silence that you're thinking exactly what I am, Eppes. You got any suggestions?" He glanced at the digital clock wired in to the dash. "You got approximately fifteen minutes to come up with something."

* * *

Sgt. Blane had to give his wife credit for smarts: she waited until she was alone with him in the cab of the van before voicing her thoughts.

"Just what the hell is going on, Jonas?" She paused to give him the beady eye. Jonas gave thanks to the Lord that he was driving and could use that as an excuse not to look back at her. "Or is it something _else_ that we wives aren't allowed to know?"

He had lied to her before. She knew every time he lied, he was certain that she did, but had the sense not to pursue it. This time he chose not to lie.

"I take it by your silence that this whole excursion was a mission." Molly took a deep breath. "I do not appreciate being dragged into this, Jonas Blane, and you can take _that_ back to Col. Ryan. It's one thing to send you off in the middle of the night. It's another thing to be _dragged_ off in the middle of the night with guns waving in your face. _You_ chose this life, Jonas; I did not, and neither did Tiffy or Kim or either of the others."

Blane took his lumps. "You are absolutely right, Mrs. Blane. The only thing I can say in Col. Ryan's defense is that he was just as much in the dark as I was. Or you," he hastened to add. "Not one of us had an inkling that this excursion would turn out this way."

"Hmmph." Yes, it was as Blane had figured: lying wouldn't work in this situation. Only the truth would set him free. His Molly knew that there were things that he couldn't tell her, and if he told that truth, then he'd get away as neatly as possible.

Because Molly was as good as Ainsley himself in weaseling out the truth, and it looked like a plain fact that the wives would be sharing their story with the psychologist, despite being with him throughout the whole ordeal. And what the wives didn't know, they couldn't tell. It was the way of Jonas' world.


	18. Cold 18 Unit

Ainsley had taken over one of the conference rooms for his investigation and was holding court. He had his laptop set up beside him, a pad of paper on which to take hand-written notes, and two of Petersen's men in the background outside the conference room to run errands. Dr. Ainsley's fingers were already tapping a non-melodic symphony onto the laptop keyboard, the fingertips stained dark. A faint wisp of tobacco smoke hovered in the air.

Col. Ryan was not a happy man. This had all the earmarks of a mission going straight down the toilet. Dr. Ainsley was a top notch interrogator, and the weak link was out on his feet. There was a good chance that he'd give them all away inside of sixty seconds or less. From the sound of it, Special Agent Eppes felt the same way, had tried to pull his brother out of the line of fire first chance he got. There'd been some sort of dust up here while they were out, but it hadn't been enough to keep Professor Eppes out of Ainsley's hands, and Ryan regretted it. The professor was still breathing, and that was good enough for Ainsley. Ryan wondered just who exactly was pulling Ainsley's strings, and if he could keep those strings from around everyone's neck. Nobody knew, and until they did, they needed to play it close to the breast, which meant Eppes the elder was reduced to trying to cover for Eppes the younger.

Didn't work. Ainsley saw right though it, wouldn't let the math consultant get away. Ryan refused to grind his teeth; his dentist was already giving him a hard time. Didn't matter that the consultant actually had as high a security clearance as Ryan himself; the man wasn't a trained field agent, didn't have those automatic reflexes that would help him to evade a question without raising suspicions. Ryan considered slipping the man something to knock him out, make it look like the man had sustained more injuries than anyone had realized. If he'd had more time, he would have. Hadn't brought anything along, but he was certain that some of his men would be more than successful at scrounging something up that would fit the bill.

He looked around before going in to where Ainsley was settling himself for business. Blane, Gerhardt, and Brown were seeing to their wives, making certain that it was only their nerves that had been stretched beyond the breaking point and nothing else. All of his men were still on high alert, looking for more combatants, ready to explode at a moment's notice. Come to think of it, Petersen's men were in much the same state, even after several hours of calm.

Charlotte needed the same attention, and Ryan regretted not being able to give it to her. He focused on his two remaining men in his unit. He gave orders. "Sgt. Williams, escort Mrs. Ryan up to our room." Of the two, he reasoned, Williams was the most likely to fit his wife's notion of gentlemanly conduct. "Sgt. Grey, run a perimeter check. I'm tired of surprises. Take some of Petersen's men to help out."

"Yes, sir." Both men disappeared with a speed inconsistent with that of 'logistics clerks'. Ryan suppressed the grim smile that tried to emerge. He had other problems to deal with, and one of the biggest ones was limping into the room to meet with that damn shrink right now.

Ryan had to give the Federal agent credit; he'd tried to convince the curly headed consultant not to play ball. It hadn't worked. At first, Prof. Eppes hadn't believed them; after all, it was only keeping one piece of information secret: that Prof. Eppes had indeed deciphered the code. That hadn't mollified FBI Team Leader Eppes, who had proceeded to show his brother all the ways that little tidbits could leak out and cause them all to go down in flames. Ryan allowed himself to be impressed; except for fastidiously following all the rules of the American court system, Eppes was a damn good interrogator. Ryan wished that he could recruit the man, just for that. But Ainsley himself wasn't taking no for an answer, and since the damn shrink had seen Prof. Eppes actually breathing, even though the man lay bleeding on top of a bed and getting his head wrapped with more gauze, it was impossible to persuade him.

Dr. Eppes walked--maybe _staggered _was a better word--into the conference room, Special Agent Eppes at his side and keeping the man from falling over. The FBI agent settled the consultant into a chair, refusing to leave him alone, lips tightened into a angry frown.

Ainsley ignored the presence of the Federal agent. "Dr. Charles Eppes." For Ainsley, the name served as both a greeting and an identification. There was no warmth in his tone, only eagerness.

"Dr. Ainsley." Dr. Eppes declined to offer his hand for shaking, and went on the immediate offensive. "I hope we can keep this brief."

Ryan cringed; the math consultant had just given Ainsley a way in, and Dr. Ainsley was only too happy to take advantage of it. "Is there something that you don't want to discuss, Dr. Eppes, that you are trying to escape?"

Prof. Eppes gave him a cold-eyed stare that he'd perfected on obstreperous sophomores. "What I want, Dr. Ainsley, is to be seen by a qualified health care professional who can prescribe appropriate narcotics for pain relief. You insisted on this meeting. Can we get on with it?"

Point to Eppes. Colonel Ryan, positioned in back of Dr. Ainsley, gave a crooked smile of encouragement. He could see Special Agent Eppes relax his shoulders that tiny fraction, hoped that Ainsley wouldn't notice. They were off to an adequate start.

Dr. Ainsley inclined his head and turned his attention to the screen overlooking the keyboard. He scanned the data found there. Marshalling his thoughts, Ryan decided, and figuring on how to proceed.

"Tell me, Dr. Eppes, how you came to be involved in this fiasco."

"You know very well how. I was requested by the NSA for a consultation. Just like you." It was a fair reply by the mathematician.

"How do you know that the NSA requested me to—"

"Because we wouldn't be sitting here now if they hadn't," Prof. Eppes interrupted, not giving Ainsley a chance to finish. "This is an NSA project, not military; therefore, the NSA requested your intervention. Get on with this, Dr. Ainsley. You may have time to waste, but I do not. I have other projects waiting for me."

"More important than national security, Dr. Eppes?" Nastily. Ryan wanted to choke the little bastard.

"This is not national security, and you know it," Dr. Eppes told him. More grins for Ryan to suppress. Damn, if the math guy wasn't shredding Ainsley up into little pieces. It was almost worth coming to this over-priced resort, just for this piece of entertainment. Ryan liked seeing the shrink get a little of his own back. "This is the Washington politicians' clean up squad with an attempt to learn what needs to be swept under the proverbial carpet before it comes back to haunt them. I wasn't able to decipher the code, and no one in the NSA or any other government agency will gain any benefit from it. That's the end of my part of it. If you need to write up a report of anything more, you can go to the bunker that was blown up and see for yourself how those men got onto the base and almost killed all of us. _That _will impact national security, not this code's inability to be broken. Find out how those men managed to operate inside a supposedly civilized nation, inside both the army and the NSA, and you will have benefited national security far more than I have, Ainsley. I have nothing more to add, so don't go waving the patriotic flag of national security at me. I'm a consultant, not an NSA field agent."

"You sound rather irritable, Dr. Eppes—"

"I have been blown up, shot, beaten, and I do not feel well in the slightest. Don't expect me to be patient under the circumstances, Dr. Ainsley." It was only the truth. Ryan choked down a cheer.

Then Ainsley changed direction abruptly. "Tell me about the code."

Dr. Eppes blinked. "What about it?"

_Uh-oh_, Ryan thought. _You've been doin' great so far, professor. Don't let him throw you._

"Were you able to decode any of it?"

"No. I already told you that."

"No?"

"No." The professor leaned back in his chair, clearly thought better of it when something twinged inside. Ryan almost winced in sympathy. That had to hurt. Everything about the man had to hurt.

"Not even a small bit of it?"

"No." Clear and precise. Unequivocal.

"That seems odd."

"Codes don't work that way, not at this level of complexity." The lecture had started. Ryan recognized the tone from all the various classes that he'd taken over the years, and he was certain that Ainsley did as well. Ryan relaxed. The professor could continue on like this indefinitely, could out-talk even Ainsley himself for another hour or two until Ainsley either fell asleep or shot himself out of sheer boredom. "Once you have a bit of it, you have a handle on the rest. You crank it out, and it falls in place." The professor paused for breath, and winced when ribs grated against themselves.

_Uh-oh. Maybe not. You lookin' a little pale there, professor? Hang in there. You can take him. He's only a little shrink, and a twerp at that._

"That didn't happen here." Ryan watched as the math consultant seemed to fumble for words. Beads of sweat sprung out onto his forehead. Ryan got more worried.

"Dr. Eppes?" Ainsley made an attempt at solicitous courtesy.

"Chuck?" Special Agent Eppes moved around to check his brother out, clearly concerned. "Chuck, you okay?

" 'm okay," the professor mumbled. "Just need…to catch…" He slumped.

"Charlie!" Eppes eased his brother's head to the table, careful not to let it bump on the hard surface, scared. Ryan could sympathize; they'd talked about Prof. Eppes bowing out in the middle due to his injuries, but no one could fake the white pallor or the beads of sweat standing out on the man's forehead. This looked like it was for real.

Ryan too came forward, feeling for the pulse at the professor's neck. It was whipping away like Krupa on a drumset goin' for an Grammy. _Black cloud, with a silver lining_. He turned to Dr. Ainsley. "Looks like he passed out, Ainsley. This interview ain't going nowhere."

"He'll come around," Dr. Ainsley predicted. "We can continue."

Eppes was appalled. "Are you kidding? This is not an enemy interrogation, Ainsley! I'm getting him to a doctor _now_, and that's final!"

"This is national security, Special Agent Eppes, and _I_ am in charge!" Ainsley snarled back. "_I_ will tell you when this man leaves!" He reached to check Prof. Eppes' pulse himself, darkened fingertips aiming for the wrist. "He's fine! Get him some water, and he'll be fine."

Ryan could read a man's thoughts in his body language, and right now Eppes' body was screaming _Eureka!_ The brain hadn't quite caught up, but Eppes had made a connection somewhere.

"This man has valuable information, whether he realizes it or not!" Ainsley carried on, "information that is needed by our country immediately! You!" The psychologist whirled around to stab a tobacco-stained finger at Ryan himself, "go fetch a physician to come here. There is no time to waste! Go! We must have this intelligence."

It clicked. It clicked, and it stank to high heaven. Ryan could see it in the Federal agent's face.

Eppes caught up Ainsley's hand from the professor's wrist. He turned it over, exposing the fingertips. They were darkened, from years of smoking cigars, and the odor of the tobacco lingered around Ainsley like a fine wine turning to vinegar. Eppes stared at Ainsley. "Your fingers are stained."

Ainsley snatched his hand away. "What are you babbling about, Eppes?" He turned on Ryan. "You! Go do as I say! Get this man some water!"

_I ain't your damned lackey, Ainsley. I ain't budgin'_.

Eppes wouldn't let him change the subject. "Your fingers are stained with tobacco."

"What of it? Why are you trying to distract me, Agent Eppes?"

"Because," and Eppes straightened himself up tall, "there was a cigar at the old mansion where we rescued you, Dr. Ainsley. It was still lit."

"So? One of the terrorists smoked cigars." Ainsley grabbed Prof. Eppes by the shoulder and shook him. "Wake up! Wake up, Dr. Eppes!"

Ryan too smelled blood. This wasn't sounding anywhere close to being right, and he saw where Eppes was going. He pulled Ainsley away from where he was trying to shake the math consultant into coherency. "Middle of the night? Right after bombing a bunker filled with FBI agents? Carrying a boatload of hostages that were kidnapped from a bunch of American soldiers? Can't see any of 'em being calm enough to enjoy a cigar, let alone carrying it to an invasion. Where'd they get it from, Ainsley?"

Dr. Ainsley struggled to regain control of the situation. "I am in charge! The NSA has given me the authority over this—"

"No," Eppes said with conviction, "no, you're not in charge. _I _am. This mission was assigned to the FBI by the NSA. This was not a joint operation, this was an FBI assignment. You're out of line, Ainsley." He turned to Ryan. "Colonel, I'd like to deputize some of your men."

"My pleasure, Special Agent Eppes. What for?"

"First, to provide an escort for my consultant to get some medical care."

"And—?" Ryan decided to enjoy what was coming next. This whole slice of life had turned out to be a lot more fun than he ever would have predicted.

"Next," and Eppes stared straight at Ainsley, drilling him with his eyes, "I need to place a guard on Dr. Ainsley's room. I have unanswered questions as to the role of some of the hostages—"

"You can't do this—"

"—and since _I_ am in charge of this operation, it is my duty to national security," he threw the phrase in Ainsley's face, "it is my duty as a Federal agent to investigate any possible connections that might have a bearing on national security."

"You'll need a warrant—"

The smile that crossed Eppes's face had no humor in it. "Col. Ryan, Lt. Bakker was a betting man, and I suspect that you are, as well. How much will you bet that I can't get a warrant within two hours, starting now?"

"Not gonna take that bet, Eppes. My mama didn't raise a fool for a son." _But she did raise one who could laugh his damn head off, which is what I'm gonna be doing once I get the chance._

"Until then, I am declaring your room a crime scene," Eppes told Ainsley.

"You can't do that—"

"I can." The Fed dared Ainsley to argue with him. "A man was kidnapped from your room: _you_. Everyone else the terrorists took had value to them: each one was the wife of a soldier. Not you, sir. What made you a valuable target?"

"You'll hear from my superiors!" Ainsley raged, shaking his finger at Eppes like an impotent weapon. "You'll hear from my superiors!"

"No, he won't." Prof. Eppes picked his head up from the table, looking as though he wished that amputation was an option.

"You!"

"If the NSA sent you, then your superiors are my superiors," Prof. Eppes said tiredly, "and you also know that my security clearance is a lot higher than yours. Go and talk to your 'superiors'. Let me know what you find out."

Ainsley backed toward the door. "Don't try to stop me! I'm calling your commanding officer, Ryan! You're facing a court martial!"

"Nobody's stopping you from leaving," Agent Eppes pointed out. "There's the door, right behind you. Just don't try to go to your room, or I'll arrest you for tampering with evidence."

"Good advice, Ainsley," Ryan added. "My men will be standing guard." He watched Dr. Ainsley flee from the room, trying not to chuckle. He turned to the FBI team leader. "How'd you figure that out, Eppes? He ran like a scared jackrabbit." _Wonder which toad under which rock he's gonna be callin'?_ "And I sure hope that there isn't a court martial in my future."

"There won't be," Special Agent Eppes promised grimly. "Charlie?"

"I don't know who sent him," Prof. Eppes said, "but it wasn't the top people at the NSA. I know them; I've done a lot of work for them over the years. If they really needed to debrief me, they'd send someone that I knew personally. They know that I wouldn't be talking to anyone that I didn't know for certain was from the NSA. Or the FBI," he added, turning to his brother.

"It was the cigar," Agent Eppes informed them. "I meant what I said. Somebody in the mansion was sitting calmly, smoking a stogie. That meant that the cigar-smoker knew he was in no danger. Ainsley's fingers were stained with tobacco. It could have been one of the terrorists, but these were people who had just carried out a bombing of a military base, invaded a resort filled with soldiers, kidnapped army wives including those of the ranking officers present." He paused for breath. "These were religious extremists. These people are not likely to smoke, not when modern interpretations of the Koran discourage it." He shook his head. "No, it was Ainsley who was smoking that cigar, and I'll be able to prove it by finding more in his hotel room. Proof positive will come when the local FBI office turns over the crime scene; I'll make sure to have them dust the cigar for prints in the mansion."

"Good eyes," Ryan approved. He was damned lucky to have run across these particular feds. Some of 'em were royal pains in the collective butt, but not these. "You know your business, Eppes." He moved on. "So where do we go from here? Ainsley'll run to his people—"

"—who'll do nothing." Of that, Agent Eppes was certain. "As long as we don't make a fuss, neither will they. They'll just watch. And sweat. And hopefully sweat some more."

Ryan sighed, nodded, accepting the necessity. _Been there, done that, got the ripped hide to prove it_. _Good chance I'll collect a few more dents in my carcass before I'm through with this man's army_. "Would've liked to bring some of them down. Don't like the way the country is headed. Doesn't set right."

"Yeah, well, neither do I," Special Agent Eppes agreed. "But I can't see a better way out of this mess, only things that will make it worse. Can you?"

Prof. Eppes was just as grim as the other two. "I know who I'll be voting for in the next election. And it can't come soon enough. Maybe once they're out of office, action can be taken."

Ryan shook his head dolefully. "Been watching this a long time, son," he told the mathematician. "Don't count on it."

"Colonel, counting is what I do for a living."


	19. Cold 19 Unit

Ryan hated like the dickens to drag his men away from their wives, but it had to be done. This had turned into the mission from hell, and he needed his people to pull them out of it. He gathered them up outside of the resort building, away from any place that was likely to contain an illicit listening device. They huddled close, letting their backs cover any possible attempt at lip reading facilitated by an expensive set of binoculars.

Ryan spoke. "Blane, Brown; Eppes has requested that we put a guard on Ainsley's room. Seems there's somethin' fishy going on with the good doctor, and we have been required and requested by our Federal brothers to prevent any of the evidence from takin' a hike."

"Yes, sir." Blane acknowledged the order.

"And, sir, may I assume that we should investigate any fishy smells?" Brown asked.

Ryan affected a look of dismay. "Why, Sgt. Brown, I should say not! Special Agent Eppes has informed me that he considers Dr. Ainsley's hotel room to be a crime scene and Dr. Ainsley a person of interest. Any interference with the aforementioned crime scene would be a violation of law, and thus not to be tolerated. In other words, getting caught with your hands on the pie would be grounds for a reprimand, Sgt. Brown. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. Don't get caught, sir."

"I should say not, sergeant." Ryan turned to the next problem. "Gerhardt, you took care of the professor's laptop?"

"What laptop, sir? If you mean the one that was destroyed in the blast that took down the bunker—"

"I do, sergeant."

"Then I regret to inform you that it was not recoverable. I saw what appeared to be a hard drive, in pieces, underneath a large boulder."

"Sergeant Gerhardt, do you know what a hard drive looks like when it's inside or outside of a computer?"

"No, sir, I do not."

"Good man." Ryan turned around, missing someone. "Where's Grey?"

Jonas Blane checked his watch. "He should be returning shortly, sir. He's running the perimeter, as ordered. And here he comes now."

Ryan watched the curly headed sergeant approach at a fast trot, the gait easy to watch. Grey didn't seem out of breath, but there was some dirt smudged onto his cheek and a small tear in his sleeve. It looked as though he'd been in a fight. "Sergeant? Perimeter all clear?"

"Yes, sir." Grey slowed to a halt, gave a sloppy salute. "All clear, sir."

"You look like something happened, sergeant."

"No, sir. No hostiles sighted. Looks like we got 'em all at the mansion, getting the ladies out."

"I think what the colonel's asking, Carlito, is what that dirt on your face is," Mack drawled. "You sure you haven't been having any fun?"

"Oh, that?" Grey reached up and self-consciously rubbed at his cheek. He only succeeded in smearing the dirt further over his face. "Uh, me and Benson—Corporal Bensen, that is—we had a little discussion."

"Looks like more than a 'little' discussion, bro." Williams stepped in.

Grey grinned. "Let's just say that we cleared up some matters between us."

"Really? Who won?"

Grey pointed off into the distance. A large and hulking figure was limping back, shoving away at his fellow soldiers, clearly angry and dispirited. "He did."

Blane did a classic double take. "He did? Corporal Benson won the dispute? I find that hard to believe, Sgt. Grey. That is not a man who looks happy with his outcome."

Grey shrugged. "Let's just say that he now knows what type of person Private Suarez is, and has decided to conduct his affairs accordingly." He grinned. "In my book, that constitutes winning."

Ryan groaned, and rolled his eyes. "We're outta here, gentlemen. I can't take you bozos anywhere polite. Gather up the ladies, and let's skedaddle. Your next mission is gonna be to war-torn anywhere."

"Amen to that," Jonas Blane said.

* * *

There was nothing remarkable about the man who let himself into Col. Ryan's office unannounced. He was of average height for a soldier, which meant a bit on the tall side, square shoulders, and clean-shaven. He wore his uniform neatly, displaying the bars on his shoulders with just the right amount carelessness that suggested that he was supremely comfortable with his rank and his position in the world of the military. He addressed the owner of the office. "Colonel Ryan? I'm Colonel John Ericks, out of Washington." 

Ryan looked up, surprised. There hadn't been any memo that a visitor was expected, and Ryan knew that his people kept him up to date on such matters. In fact, he had just been updated that morning, trying to catch up after that mission to Hades. He recovered swiftly. "Ericks," he greeted the man with just the right amount of warmth, something between 'how nice to see you' and 'who the heck hasn't shot this rattler yet?' "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I won't waste your time," Ericks said briskly. "I have orders to retrieve the copies of the information that you obtained while on R&R last week. We'll take them off your hands, colonel. I'm sure that they're burning a hole in your pocket."

Ryan affected a look of puzzlement. "Information? While on R&R? I'm sorry, Ericks; I don't know what you mean. My men and I went to that resort for a good time and to improve morale; both of which, I might add, were rousing successes. Col. Peterson informs me that his people are taking the additional guard duty in stride and looking forward to a re-match. In fact, I believe that Peterson thinks that he's found himself another ringer to throw into the mix. The transfer will occur the first of next month and he has requested that we consider a tournament for the month after that." He allowed just the right amount of grin to cross his craggy features. "Should make it interesting."

Ericks was not amused. He leaned over the desk, aiming a not inconsiderable amount of irritation at Ryan. "Don't play games, Ryan. You know exactly what I mean. You can either turn those discs over to me here and now, or there will be consequences; consequences that neither you nor your men can afford. Do I make myself clear?"

Ryan dropped the act. "Crystal, Ericks. However, there is one additional item that you and your people need to know." He pulled up a picture on his computer, swivelling the screen around to show the contents to Ericks. "Recognize that man?"

The man in the picture would also have been unremarkable, except for one small item: he was dead. Continued life was clearly impossible, given the neat black hole drilled through his forehead, courtesy of a bullet fired at close range. To give the weapon wielder credit, the hair had not been mussed, nor had the even features been damaged. The mortician would have an easy time of it once the body was in capable hands.

Ericks didn't blink. "Who is that?"

Good acting, Ryan thought. Only the failure to blink gave it away. Ryan tried to match Ericks' thespian skills. "That's what we'd like to know, Ericks," he lied. "Last evening, this man was found burglarizing the home of one of my men, Master Sergeant Jonas Blane. Too bad for him; Sgt. Blane's wife came home and, being concerned for her safety, used the gun that Sgt. Blane had left her for just such occasions. As you can see, Mrs. Blane is a good shot when she needs to be." Ryan allowed a sigh to ease out past his lips. "A disappointment, of course. If the good sergeant had been with Mrs. Blane at the time, we might be questioning the man from the brig. We'd be able to find out who he is, who he works for, and just what he was doing inside Sgt. Blane's home." _How's that for a threat, Ericks?_ "Now we'll simply have to be satified by asking the local FBI unit for assistance to identify the poor bastard." _Don't really need to do that. Grey and Williams got a real good look at our victim when he was alive, playing around under that mountain bunker. We know who he is, just like you do, Ericks; man going by the name of Stephen Foster. I'll leave it to you to decide if that was his real name._ "How long do you think it will take for the identification to come through, Ericks?" _Don't laugh, Thomas. Don't laugh._

Ericks recovered swiftly. "I can see your concern, Col. Ryan, and appreciate it. I'll contact my superiors in Washington; I'm certain that they will want to do the identification themselves. You'll hear from them, so that we can transfer the body as quickly as possible."

"Good." Ryan shuffled some papers on his desk, just to have something to do with his hands. "I'm glad that we've gotten this whole affair settled. I don't expect to hear any more about it, not unless something comes up that makes me want to revisit this issue." _You stay away from me and mine, and I won't blow the whistle on you and your bosses_. "Oh, and by the way: Mr. Ericks?"

"Yes, colonel?"

"There's regulations about impersonating an Army officer. I suggest you review 'em. My people are pretty good at identifying people who are and are not in this man's army as they come through our gate." Crooked smile. "Dismissed."

Ericks fled.

* * *

Final A/N: Some of you will be disappointed that I didn't 'name names' of those 'upper level people' directing the twisting of the operations for and against our boys and that they 'didn't get what they deserved'. That was deliberate; I and others are growing more and more concerned that various world leaders may be using their power, either intentionally or accidentally, for personal gain rather than the welfare of our planet (can you spell 'paranoia'?). Educate yourselves on current events and select whichever names seem to you to best fit the criteria for this fictional story. For those of us eligible to vote, it is more important than ever that we not be swayed by rhetoric but instead carefully consider which candidate is best suited to make this world a better place for all, and then vote our conscience. 


End file.
